Dear Diary
by thubar2000
Summary: Dorothy makes her openings moves against the men tailing her and a new development crops up that involves Roger Smith.
1. 23 Oct to 1 Nov

**Dear Diary: 23 Oct to 1 Nov**

Sunday 23 October 40 Paradigm Year

Dear Diary,

I recently Remembered that Dorothy Wayneright kept a diary, so I endeavor to do the same. Today, I woke Roger Smith up at 11:30 AM by playing the piano. He seemed upset. Waking up should be quick and efficient. Perhaps I should learn to play "Reveille" on the bugle. Instro praises my playing. If Roger did not stay up so late, he would probably wake up in a better mood. If he woke up earlier then maybe he would get more work done in the day and not stay up so late.  
That also brings up another point. Why does he preen himself and then wears clothing that can barely be differentiated at night? His nocturnal schedule and the frequent rain also render his shades useless.

I had no control over how I fell in with such a strange man. Father, forgive me. You told me to stay away from men like him. Yet, this is my lot and I must come to terms.

I hear his car starting; I must go.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Tuesday 25 October 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Roger Smith is a louse.

I found an issue of "Big and Bouncy" magazine in the bathroom. I am also irritated because he leaves the seat up on the toilet every time he uses it.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Wednesday 26 Oct 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Norman asked me if I was happy living here and if I was happy serving Roger Smith. I replied that I have no complaints.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Thursday 27 Oct 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

A Megadeus attacked the city today. Roger defeated it.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Friday 28 Oct 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Roger got upset, because I got him colorful boxer shorts instead of the wretched black ones that he usually wears. I told him that the department store does not carry black boxers. He told me that he got them custom tailored.

_ If Roger Smith had encountered color by numbers as a child, would he have colored the entire picture black?_

Why did I write that?

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Sat 29 Oct 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Why am I writing this? I am not Dorothy Wayneright, which is why I sign as R. Dorothy. Otherwise it would be as silly as Roger calling himself Mr. Roger Smith, though I would not put that past him.

It seems silly, but it does give me something to do, since I do not need much 'sleep'. I need some down time for software maintenance and hardware diagnostics and some time for my power source to recharge. However, my brain does not need to sort itself out every night to avoid madness and delirium.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Tue 1 Nov 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, I ran in Dan Dastun, the Paradigm Military Policeman, and he invited me to go for a drink. It was the second time I had seen him out of uniform. He doffed his cap to me. I called Norman to ask him if I was needed at home. He told me no, Master Roger was out with Ms. Patricia Lovejoy. I accepted Dastun's invitation. _He had waited for me like gentleman. He is a soft spoken man, though his demeanor seemed rough. We went to Amadeus and saw Instro there.  
_

_ We sat at a table and Dastun asked me what I wanted. I told him not to bother, that I could not taste it or react to the alcohol. He ordered a rum with Coke for me and a scotch on the rocks for himself._

_  
"It tastes better with company," he said._

_  
I could not taste it, but the carbonation tickled. I liked the sensation and told him that it was interesting.  
_

_ "So, how are you getting on with Roger?" he asked.  
_

_ "He is often rude, but I'm used to of it," I replied.  
_

_ "The way you two carry on, it's as if you were brother and sister or an old married couple," he said with a laugh. He had dinner with us two weeks back and had a chance to observe us. He looked much younger when he laughed. Instro played 'Claire de Lune' by Debussy. Dastun took a drink and fell silent.  
_

_ "How do you know Roger Smith?" I asked him.  
_

_ "He was a cadet in the force." Dastun replied. "Back then, he believed in the force. He was always a smart aleck, but he was smart on his feet, smart at the research. I told Smith that he would go far if he wanted to. He was one of the youngest lieutenants on the force.  
"He was one of the boys. Anytime they went out for a greasy burger and a beer, he was there.  
"But then came a case that changed him."  
_

It is nearly noon, I must go and awake Roger.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	2. 1 Nov to 2 Nov

** Dear Diary: Nov 1, Remainder - Nov 2**

Evening - Tue 1 Nov 40 PY

Dear Diary,

Roger was furious. He told me that he was not going to live under the same roof with a smoker. I asked him if that meant that he would never live under the same roof as Patricia Lovejoy. He took on a commanding tone and told me that I was to inform himself or Norman if I would be out late and under no circumstances was I ever to smoke again. I replied that I just wanted to keep Dan company while he smoked.

_Dan? Dan Dastun? He asked in a bewildered tone. He pulled a peculiar expression when I called his former boss "Dan". It was a facial freeze and then a twitch or tic around the eyes. Roger regained his composure and then reiterated that he would not live with foul air and that I was to report it if I were to be out late again.  
_

_ He can rest assured that I will not smoke again. I only tried it once. I liked the rum with cola better._

I have looked back at what I had written before and parts of it are still in my handwriting, but different. The writing is less measured, more rushed. Are the  
memories of Dorothy 0 resurfacing as I write? (I am Dorothy II. Dorothy I is quite dead.) I do not know. But I want to finish what I started this morning.

Dastun said. "But then came a case that changed him.

"It started with a car accident. A real wreck. A Chevy went off road and smashed into a lamp post. The passenger was mangled. We would've needed dental records to identify him if it wasn't for the driver. One rookie lost his lunch at the scene, but not Roger. _As calm as you please, he took the pictures and took down the notes.  
_

_ "I'm going to leave out some of the names, if you don't mind.  
_

_ "It was a case of driving drunk on New Year's Eve. Young men with too much money had too much to drink and that should have been the end of it for us. Charlie M. was his name and the driver was Hardley P. Hardley had suffered only a few nicks and bruises.  
_

_ "A month later, we were contacted by the Mr. and Mrs. M. They wanted to report a kidnapping, the kidnapping of their grandson. They had hired a private eye and had found a kid that Charlie had fathered the year before. Evidently, Hardley knew the Charlie's family for years and felt guilty that he had killed their son. Hardley knew that Charlie snuck out of the Domes and slummed Outside. During that previous year, Charlie had spent several months outside of the Domes and suddenly reappeared one day. His parents were so happy to have him back that they didn't ask questions.  
"It was an open and shut case, the M.'s lived inside the Domes and the H. family didn't. I went out to do the dirty work.  
"Let me tell you, I did not feel good that day or many afterward, but I had sworn to uphold the law. And I wasn't going to make one of my men do it if I wasn't willing. Roger came along. I didn't ask him to. I didn't want to refuse him either. I wasn't sure if he was ready; he thought he was."_

He finished his scotch and ordered a double. "Ms. Dorothy, If I'm boring you, please tell me. I mean, this is a long story after all."

"Dorothy is fine. I asked to know. Thank you for telling me this. Please continue if you wish," I responded.

He took a gulp from his fresh drink, and then continued. "It was a dark day. The sky, I mean, though it fit the task. I figured that if I did it, I could make sure that we did our best to arrange visitations for the mother and her family.

_"The H.'s lived in a Jewish neighborhood. It was run down like every place else outside of the Domes. I think that Jewish is kind of like German, another nationality. No one on the force had any Memories of what Jewish meant._

_  
"Anyway, the H.'s reluctantly let us into the house. They denied that their daughter was there. We showed them the PI photos. If the PI hadn't done such a good job, I would've taken them at their word and left. But duty is duty. The mother came downstairs in the end. She was a small woman, but she radiated a pride like I'd never seen before. She said that no son of hers would hide from anyone. She refused to give up the child. Roger asked if she would be willing to come with the child and talk to the grandparents. It was the best way to resolve it, he argued. She consented.  
_

_ "I think that Roger thought that he could do something or say something that would have changed the outcome. I don't know. Knowing Roger back then, I think that something in him believed that the law could not be so harsh.  
_

_ "So we brought them in. We arranged a meeting with the M.'s. We put Rachel and Joseph H. up in a motel; like we do for jurors. We arranged a meeting between Rachel and the M.'s. Evidently, the M.'s knew a brass in the force and even before the meeting, they took the kid from Rachel.  
_

_ "I protested, but Rachel was from outside of the domes. Roger was livid. I made him take some days off to cool down. I was kept trying the official channels and Roger wasn't going to help.  
_

_ "Back then, I guess I trusted the higher ups more, myself.  
_

_ "I could sympathize with how he felt. After all, he was the one who got her to come to the Dome in the end."  
_

_ Dastun looked incredibly tired. He picked up his scotch and considered drinking, but put it back down.  
_

_ "I'm not sure what happened next," Dasun related. "But Rachel left the motel without telling anyone. I recieved a phone call from her telling me not to bother about her son anymore. I think that I saw her once in the Domes, but when the woman looked at me, I saw that it wasn't her.  
_

_ "Soon after the phone call, Roger shows up at my desk all dressed in black and hands in his gun and uniform.  
_

_ "That's about it."_

"Did Roger lost faith in the force?" I asked.

"Yes, he did."  
"Why did you not loose faith?"

"Because if the M.'s had called me, I would have not have taken her boy. The force has some bad apples, but the Military Police is more good that bad. When we do things right, justice is tempered by mercy."

The bartender announced last call. Dastun quaffed the last of his scotch and paid the tab. We bid Instro a good night. We left. Dan drove me home. That was when I asked for the cigarette.

A part of the story is missing. I asked Norman about it and he told me that he did not pry in Master Roger's business. I suppose that I will have to ask Roger.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Wed 2 Nov 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Roger was in a better mood today. I woke him with a piano rhapsody by Raff. He was on the roof standing idly in his black robe and fuzzy slippers. I even made his coffee the way he liked it. He was into his second cup and in a "tranquil frame of mind" when I posed my question.

"Roger, I want to ask you a question," I told him.

"About what?" he asked calmly.

"About your last case."

"You were there, oh, you mean back then," he said. He paused. "So that's what you were talking to Dastun about."

He paused again and thought about it for a minute and twenty-two seconds.

"I'll tell you another time," he replied. "Not right now."

"Is that a promise, Roger?"

"Yeah, that's a promise."

I did not know if I read his expression correctly, but I believe that he seemed relieved when he learned about the subject that Dastun and I talked about. I shall hold him to his promise.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	3. 2 Nov to 3 Nov

** Dear Diary: Nov 2-3**

Wed 2 Nov. 40 PY

Dear Diary,

Did the laundry today.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Thu 3 Nov. 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Today was very busy. Norman had arranged to buy munitions for the Big O from some of his contacts, so I was left to prepare Roger's morning. First, the time pieces had to be wound. Next, I rode the elevator to collect the morning edition and iron it; he hates getting ink on his hands. I prepared his breakfast of scrambled eggs, hashed browns, toast, and coffee. I placed the food on a hot plate to keep it warm. I was careful to turn the toast over such that it did not sweat upon itself. I rode the elevator again to collect the post. I set the table. I ran the tap in his bathroom so that he would not need to wash with cold water.

Finally, the hour arrived to awaken Sleeping Beauty. I chose a playful tune, "Dizzy Fingers" by Zez Confrey. Roger did not appreciate it. He picked at his food. I sipped hot coffee to keep him company. Roger did not appreciate that much either; he leafed through his mail. Roger can be a brat.

His eyes widened when he reached a plain envelope covered with large writing. With a grim look on his face, he tore it open and read the letter. When he finished, he closed his eyes meditatively. The hallway clock struck thirteen times.

"Dorothy," he asked carefully. "Are you busy today?"

"No, Roger," I replied. " I am not busy today. Why do you ask?"

"I need to visit some," he took a moment to choose his words. "People and I wanted to know if you would be willing to come along."

"May I know who these people are?"

"No, you may not."

"Very well, invitation accepted. Let me clear off the table."

"All right, then."

Roger left to take a shower. I cleaned off the table. The letter he had been reading had fallen to the ground. I picked it up and glanced at it. I saw the last part of the letter. Large loopy writing littered the ivory stationary.

, please come see us soon.  
Love,  
Mother

I decided to change. I went to my room and cleaned myself. I have a half bath attached to my room; it has a stand up wash basin. It is convenient. My selection was limited. I decided that casual would be best. Of course, I had to wear black.

Roger appeared in black slacks, a white shirt, and a brown leather jacket. His hair was molded in its usual shape. I wore a dark gray wool blazer over a white cotton blouse, a black calf-length skirt, and black stockings. My casual pumps, string tie, and handbag matched my skirt.

"What's with the get up?" he asked.

"It is what I felt like wearing," I answered.

"There you go, imitating us again."

I did not deign to respond as we descended.

The temperature was 56 degrees Fahrenheit. The sky was partly cloudy, and the air was lightly humid.

_Roger did not speak as he drove. He kept his eyes on the road and drove quickly. We entered the Northern Dome. Roger knew the path well. He tapped at the steering wheel when we stopped at lights. Finally, he turned toward a brownstone tenement and parked in the lot behind the ten story building. The Griffin barely fit in the parking space. I followed him to the back door. The parking lot and sidewalk were swept. Gaunt trees ringed around the building. He hit the speaker button.  
_

_ "Hello?" A middle aged female voice said over the com.  
_

_ "Hello, Mom," Roger replied.  
_

_ "Oh Roger, it's you. Come on up."  
_

_ A buzz sounded and Roger pulled the door open.  
_

_ "After you," he said with an ironic bow. I walked in. "There's an elevator ahead."  
_

_ Roger's parents lived on the seventh floor, room 703. Roger rang the doorbell. He started to adjust his collar. I stepped in front of him to help him. Just then, a gray haired, tall, and thin woman answered the door. Roger tried to jump back, but my fingers had trapped cloth. His head whipped back slightly from the aborted motion. I released him. He finished stumbling back and finished the adjustments.  
_

_ "You must be Mrs. Smith," I said. "How do you do?"  
_

_ "Hello, and you are?" she asked.  
_

_ "Dorothy Wayneright," I answered politely and curtsied.  
_

_ "Come on in," Mrs. Smith said. "Roger, how are you?"  
_

_ "I'm okay, Mom," he answered. "How's Dad?"  
_

_ "He's fine," a crotchety voice growled. A portly balding man sat on an worn armchair in the living room. He held a can of Budweiser in one hand. A radio announcer described a baseball game. Mr. Smith reached out with a thick arm and hand and switched the gothic arched device off. There was a full head of hair on the back of each of those arms."Paradigm's Number One Negotiator, hah, more like Paradigm's Number One Cop Out."  
_

_ "Please, come on in," the woman repeated. I carefully wiped my shoes on the doormat and entered.  
_

_ "Hi, Dad," Roger said in a guarded tone.  
_

_ "Dear, this is Dorothy," the woman said cheerfully.  
_

_ "Hello, I'm Roger Smith," the man said amiably to me and then scowled again at the younger Roger Smith. "So, Junior, when are you going to get a respectable job?"  
_

_ "I provide a necessary duty for the City, Dad," he said.  
_

_ "Necessary, my hemorrhoid ridden ass," Roger Senior answered.  
_

_ "Oh, dear," Mrs. Smith said. "Let's go into the kitchen.  
_

_ The kitchen was small and orderly. Sunlight spilled from between daisy print curtains. The neat table cloth, kettle, tea cosy, cups, and even saucers were decorated with colorful flower.  
_

_ "How thoughtless of Roger," Mrs S said. "He forgot to take your coat."  
_

_ "It's fine," I replied. "He is preoccupied."  
_

_ "What a nice girl you are," she said. "Please take a seat."  
_

_ Roger's mother helped me with my blazer and handbag and placed them on the back of a chair. She bustled about the kitchen. I sat and listened to the heated words that spilled over from the living room."Don't call me Junior, Dad. I have a name you know."  
_

_ "No, I forgot."  
_

_ "I didn't come over here for an interrogation."  
_

_ "So why DID you come here?"  
_

_ "I got a letter from Mom-"  
_

_ "Pity, I don't need it. I was chasing down thugs and delinquents like you before-"  
_

_ "One or two lumps?" Mrs. Smith asked.  
_

_ "None, thank you," I answered. She sat studying me for a moment. We sipped at the tea.  
_

_ "Are you, are you," she asked. Her brows were furrowed with concentration. "Oh dear, what's the word, I Remembered it once."  
I was ready to supply 'android', when she found her word.  
_

_ "Irish? That would really explain the fair skin."  
_

_ "No one has told me that before," I said. The noise in the background grew louder.  
_

_ "Really. Roger never told me about you, but then again he never tells me much. He usually goes for the **louder** girls. I've never liked any of her previous girlfriends before, but you're - you're different," Mrs. S said loudly over the shouting between the boys.  
_

_ "I suppose that I am different from other girls."  
_

_ Mrs. S rose and closed the door. It cut the racket down to a dull roar.  
_

_ "I'm sorry, what did you say?"  
_

_ "Well I'm not actually his girlfriend, I just live with him."  
_

_ "Oh," she said with a little surprise. "Well, Roger never just brings any girl home. Actually you're the first in such long time. Sometimes, I'm afraid that Roger Junior will never settle down.  
_

_ "Well lately," she lean to tell me in a conspiratorial whisper. "Roger thinks that Junior might be you know - gay."  
_

_ "I don't know why he would think that," I said.  
_

_ "Well Junior has always been neat, couldn't stand being dusty for very long. Washed his hands every time he entered and left a bathroom. I approved, but Roger thought it was prissy.  
_

_ "Roger reckons that's why he moved out of the Domes, because they aren't that particular about that sort of thing Outside.  
_

_ "Also the way he dresses. Roger doesn't approve, simply doesn't approve."  
_

_ "I see," I said. The racket died outside. Seconds later, the kitchen door flew open. Roger Junior stood at it. He was indignant.  
_

_ "Roger Earnest Smith!" Mrs S snapped. "How many times have I told you not to slam doors!"  
_

_ "Sorry, Mom," he said reluctantly. "Dorothy, we're going. I'll be downstairs."  
_

_ "So soon?" his mother asked._

_  
"I'll visit again, soon. For you," he said shortly. She approached him. He was well within arm's distance. He reached into his jacket and handed her a check._

_  
"I couldn't."_

_  
Wordlessly, he left the check on the table. Roger walked from the room without looking back.  
_

_ "I, too, must be going," I said.  
_

_ "I suppose you must," Mrs S said a little sadly.  
_

_ "I'll visit again as well."  
_

_ "You really should, you're always welcome."  
_

_ She walked me to the door. Mr. Smith sat drinking his beer. The radio stayed off.  
_

_ "Good to meet you Dorothy," Mr. Smith said.  
_

_ "Good to meet you, Mr. Smith. And you, Mrs. Smith."  
_

_ Mrs. Smith gave me a quick hug before I left. The hallway seemed poorly lit and small after being in the bright interior of the Smiths' home.  
When I reached the Griffin, Roger had his shades on and his hand was ready at the clutch. I opened the door and sat at the passenger's seat. His eyes were clear and focused dead ahead again. His eyes did not leave the road as we pulled from the parking lot. His hands moved a little stiffly. I could hear his heart pumping slightly faster than usual. The 478 horsepower engine growled as he drove north. I glanced at him. He took after his mother.  
_

_ "You don't look much like your father," I told him.  
_

_  
"That's the best thing I've heard all day," he said. His voice sounded normal.  
_

_ "This is not the way home."  
_

_ "No, it isn't."  
_

_ "Aren't you going to ask me?"  
_

_ "What?"  
_

_ "If I want to go to where you are going."  
_

_ "Okay, do you want to come along?" he asked lightheartedly as he cruised through another amber light.  
_

_ "It depends."  
_

_ "On what?" he asked.  
_

_ "If you'll pay my fee."  
_

_ "What's your fee, Negotiator?"  
_

_ "My fee will be the completion of your story, Roger Earnest Smith," I answered.  
_

_ He grimaced. "If you'll never call me that again, it's a deal."  
_

_ "Very well," I agreed. After all, there was still 'Junior'. _

I must recharge. It has been a long day.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	4. 4 Nov First Half

** Dear Diary: First Half of Nov 4**

Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY

Dear Diary,

I am at a bed-and-breakfast near a place that was once called Peekskill.

I sit among purple cushions on a window seat. The last snowflakes stopped falling a half of an hour ago. I can see white blanketed hills and trees under the bright moonlight. A trail of smoke rises from a hidden chimney. A few lingering clouds slowly drift overhead.

I blew a circle of mist onto the window and traced Father's face in the condensation. I do not know why I did it. The heat will seep through the glass and the film of moisture will evaporate. In a few minutes, the window will be clear again. But I think of you often, Father.

Father once showed me his favorite book. It was a dog-eared copy of "Pygmalion". The pages were brittle and yellow. In the play, a professor named Henry

Higgins takes on a wager. He wagers that he can teach a waif to fool high society by teaching her to speak well. Professor Higgins then takes in one Eliza Doolittle.

I understand now that Higgins was a craftsman who attempted to shape a flower girl. What he did not realize that he would shaped by Eliza as well. My father was also a craftsman.

By acting and creating, I change myself. To change is to adapt. To adapt is to survive. I was made to survive even without father. In the quiet and beneath the moonlight, somehow that thought makes me content, though I am sad that he is gone.

The toilet flushes loudly just outside the door. The bedroom door opens and a disheveled Negotiator staggers in. His eyes are still closed even as he walks to the bed and slides in. Roger cocoons himself in the sheets and curls onto the depressed space I left in the bed.

Roger is asleep again.

I should recharge again. Tomorrow may be another long day and who knows what might happen afterwards.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

P.S. I know that I am not sleeping on the couch tonight.

* * *

Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY Morning

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, Roger took me an orchard. We sampled italian plums, Northern Spy apples, cider, and donuts. Afterward, we came to this town. We had Italian for dinner and Roger decided that we would stay the night. He bought a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon '42 from a vinyard closer to the northern wastelands. He purchased a nightgown for me at the dry goods store. Roger packed a travel bag in the Griffin.

Once we reached the bed and breakfast, I told him to not to try to take advantage of me. He asked me if there was anything to take advantage of. I assured him that I was functional up to, but excluding pregnancy. At that point, he firmly corked the wine bottle and decided to call it a night. It was still early for him. In a fit of kindness, he took the couch.

I awoke before he did. He pillowed his head on me. Roger Smith drooled in his sleep. He seemed quite content until he fully woke up.

"R. Dorothy!" he yelled as he jumped off the bed. "What are you doing?  
"What the- I was on the couch, what am I doing here?"

"It seems that you are not immune to my mechanical wiles, Roger."

"Was that a joke?" he asked as he left the room. He seemed irked. Roger often seems that way.

"Yes, I suppose it was."

I am not sure if he heard me or not as he was prepared his toilet. I will have to wash the drool from my new black nightgown.

More, later. Roger has been in the bathroom for a long time.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	5. 4 Nov Second Half

** Dear Diary: Second Half of Nov 4**

Early Afternoon - Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY

Dear Diary,

Our road trip continues in the midst of the nowhere found north of Paradigm. We are headed back south. I am sitting at a booth of diner. I have coffee, while Roger shoots a friendly game of billards and drinks a bottle of Budwieser. He is smiling as he cracks jokes, and the rough farmers' sons laugh. He ate a massive grilled hamburger with all of the fixings and a heap of fries smothered in ketchup. Somehow he ate it all neatly. Was he like this when he worked with Dastun?

I felt a brief flash of annoyance when he asked me if I minded if he played a round or two of pool. I could tell that Roger would play no matter what I said. He asked if I wanted to join. I replied that no, I would not mind and that no, I had no interest in a game that I would obviously dominate.

He said. "Suit yourself."

I sit writing in my notebook on a linoleum tabletop. I sip my black and unadorned coffee.

This morning, I knocked on the bathroom door. He did not answer.

I opened the door and bumped his arm as he shaved. The blade bit into his skin. He let out a yelp of surprise and pain. Droplets of blood splattered red into the sink.

"I am sorry," I said.

"Hey, watch it," he replied testily with his froth covered face. "Don't you know it's rude to barge in?"

"You did not answer."

"Well, now you know why."

He pulled toilet paper from the dispenser and stuck it onto the wound.

"Is there a first aid kit in the cabinet or in the Griffen?"

"It's nothing, it'll stop in a moment," he replied. He paused for a moment. "What's with the concern?"

"Is is so unusual?"

"I guess not. Well, are you going to close the door? It's getting a little chilly."

I stepped into the steamy room and closed the door behind me.

"Well then," he said unperturbed.

He fell silent and picked up the straight razor again.

"Allow me," I said as I plucked the blade from his hand. He seemed surprised. _ I walked between him and the mirror. He backed up a step. A Memory emerged. Over the floral-printed paper on the wall, I see the Memory of a wall of mirrors.  
_

_ Dorothy 0 caught a glimpse of herself in the wall of mirrors around the broad chest of a man. The back of the man was hairier and broader than Roger's. The mirror wall caught its own image in the cabinet mirror and reflected its way down to a blurry infinity.  
_

_ I took Roger's face firmly in my left hand, as Dorothy 0 did in the Memory. The blade carressed the corner of his jaw. He locked his gaze onto to me. He steadily studied me. That was incongruous with the lovers from long ago. I continued to shave him. I kept my eyes on the blade. It was not easy. I felt the pull to look into Roger's eyes.  
_

_ I stopped with the razor above his Adam's apple. I finally gave into the urge to look up and felt an unsettling surge of vertigo. Something that I have never felt before. I noticed that I was still in my nightgown. I noticed that he stood dressed only in his colorful boxer shorts; the purple striped ones that I had bought for him.  
_

_ "What am I to you?" I asked him.  
_

_ "An android with a blade to my throat," he said. The feeling faded with the word "android". The Memory sank back to where it had come from.  
_

_ "I suppose that I am that," I said and I finished the rest of the shave quickly.  
_

_ "You give a clean shave," he said as I handed the blade back to him.  
_

_ "Dorothy Wayneright had done this before."  
_

_ "I wonder who the lucky guy was," Roger said as packed away his toilet.  
_

_ I did not answer, because I realized that the man's name had been Roger Smith._

However, Roger Smith is a common name, is it not?

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Night - Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Back home again. Yes, this small neat room is mine. And this large ex-hotel is my home. We made it back a little after nightfall. Norman waited with dinner ready. He asked Roger if he had enjoyed his vacation. Roger said yes. And you Dorothy? he asked. It was interesting, I replied.  
After dinner, Norman handed me a cardboard box. Dastun had been by earlier and dropped it off. It was what remained of my father's estate after the Paradigm jackals (lawyers) had been through with it. Dastun surmised that they were after my father's notes. These items happened "slipped past the beancounters, somehow".

Will you be needing my help tonight? I asked Norman. No, he replied. You probably will want some time to unwind after your journey. I took the box back to my room after thanking Norman.

In the box was the brittle paperback copy of "Pygmalion" by George Benard Shaw. I saw that it had another title: "My Fair Lady". There were two other books. One was called "Haikus" and the other was a paperback about haikus. There were a few dresses that Father had bought for me and an old notebook.  
The book "Haikus" is thin with a blue canvas and board cover. The ivory endsheet behind the front cover bears an inscription: "To my Father. Slow down and listen to the jumping frog. Your loving daughter, Dotty". The handwriting is familiar, I have almost written in it before. I do not have Dorothy 0's fully flourished loops. "Haikus" is in far better condition than the paperbacks. The paper has less acid. I flipped to a page marked with a folded corner.

old pond  
a frog jumps in  
the sound of water  
- Basho

I will have to look more into this later. The notebook seems to be the journal of Dorothy Wayneright. A sepia photo floated out when I flipped through it. A handsome older man posed with a girl who I strongly resemble. "Dorothy and Roger Smith 2003" was written on the back of the photo.

I was going to start on the part of the story that Roger told me on the way back to Paradigm, but I think that this is enough for tonight.

Good night.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	6. Interlude

Dear Diary: Interlude 

Tue 8 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
There are now seven stubs where I had written about Roger's final case as an MP. I cut the pages with a razor and straight edge. I wish to apologize. I have discovered the other side to writing, writer's block. Everything I wrote turned out trite and did not do justice to what had happened to Roger.  
Some stories have their day; maybe that one will too. Perhaps it should stay with me.  
I can see why Roger was not forthcoming about it. No one wants to dwell on failure.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright. 

Wed 9 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
Norman usually cleans up Roger's room. Today, he was busy preparing an emergency plan in the case that Big O is severely damaged. The honor fell to me to make change his sheets, vacuum, and straighten up. It is amazing how much a lone man can tangle and wrinkle his sheets. I shudder think what he would do if he weren't alone. On second thought, I don't think that I want to think about that much at all. The condoms on the nightstand have expired, I think that I will tell Norman and let him deal with it.  
In the study attached to his bedroom, I discovered portraits, mainly of women. One was of Rachel, the woman in the photo near the liquor cabinet. There is a charcoal study of of his father probably of his father. The drawing emphasizes his wrinkles and crowsfeet, the stoop to the man's shoulders. Perhaps he looked up one day and realized that his father looked old. Dorothy 0 drew often. I tried to draw Pero from my memory. I do not forget things, but I was still unable to capture his gentleness and warmth.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright  
Addendum - Tonight, I asked Roger if I could pose for a portrait. He said yes. 

Author's Note:  
Sorry about making a mess of chapters 6 and 7. To be honest, the original intent of the story was Roger's last case an an MP. The diary was supposed to be a frame and nothing more, but the frame story grew stronger that I first imagined. I didn't keep in tempo and tried to push forward with Roger's last case. It became stranded. It was a random anecdote that I had a hard time relating to the present of Dorothy and the diary. Without any sense of immediacy or strong relation to what had passed, the action stagnated.  
I figured it out when I looked back at the reviews and saw what they concentrated on.  
Enough excuses. I wanted to thank the people who reviewed before and anyone patient enough to continue.  
thubar2000 


	7. Shavian Dreams 1

Shavian Dreams: Act 1 

?? Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,

I still feel disoriented. I remember the point when I almost crushed Roger to death. I still do not know what to think of this. I am sure that I am angry at that low-life Beck. Even my internal clock is off. It is unsettling.

Norman told me that he had downloaded the disrupted sensory data logs from my mind. He hopes that this will help reorient me, since there were several hours that I spent functional, but do not remember. The scrambled memories had cluttered my main bank of memory and needed to be offloaded before reboot. He gave me the reels of my memories and assured me that no one had viewed them yet. I went to the projection room and wound the video reel into the 35 mm projector and the audio reel into the sound system. I followed the printed instructions on the machine and sat to watch my first dreams.

The sepia reel runs. 

== ACT 1 ==

_[Setting: A domeless city. It is a dark and stormy night near the ball park. Two men shelter from the rain on the front steps of a museum, which is built in a neo-classical style. The younger man, Roger, leans against a column. He is dressed completely in black. The other man, Dastun, is older. He wears a brown jacket and sports a brimmed hat. A pale female android, R. Dorothy is also sheltering from the storm. Her light colored dress is ragged. She wears a shawl around her head, which hides most of her face. Threadbare gloves hides her hands. A frayed wicker basket sits beside her feet.]_

DASTUN. 8 to 9 in overtime! Bartholomew with a clutch catch! What a game! I tell you, I thought that the Mets had them on the ropes for sure. 

ROGER. It's all about toughness, and the Dodgers were the tougher team. 

DASTUN. You called it. 

ROGER. Sports or anything else, it's about people. During the season, the Dodgers won six games in overtime. The Mets relied on offensive fireworks. It came down to behavior. 

DASTUN. There's talent too. 

ROGER. Of course, there has to be a base level to make it into the Paradigm League. But beyond that, it falls to determination. 

DASTUN. I suppose you're right. 

ROGER. Of course I'm right, it's elementary.

_[A soaked blond woman, Angel, takes shelter with them. She is soon followed by a dapper elder man and an equally dapper android, Instro. The men are not with the woman.] _

ROGER. Behavior. Take this woman for instance. From her pin-stripe skirt and blazer, I assume that she works for Paradigm. _[R. Dorothy begins to approach the newcomers, but stops.]_

BLOND. So what? A lot of people do. _[Places a cig between her lips and sparks her lighter.]_ Damn, damn it. _[spark]_ Damn it all!

ROGER. From the way she's trying to light her cigarette, she's angry.

DASTUN. _[dubiously]_ A reasonable assessment.

BLOND. _[addressing Roger]_ Hey buddy, got a light?

ROGER. Don't smoke. _[Dastun offers a light.]_

BLOND. Thanks.

ROGER. Since she's still in business clothes, she probably met a coworker for dinner and then the game, probably a higher up in another department. She seems too smart to try for her own boss.

BLOND. _[testily puffs]_ You're full of it.

ROGER. Anyway, from her scary expression and the fact that she's alone, the date did not go well. _[Angel puffs away like an chimney.]_ From the wine stain on her blouse, I would imagine that her date got a little rough with his affections in the private box. 

BLOND. _[peeved]_ You don't know what you're talking about.

ROGER. The chipped nail tell me that she slapped him and stalked out of the booth at the bottom of the ninth with one out, two strikes, and two balls.

INSTRO. How would you know?

ROGER. It couldn't have been sooner, otherwise she'd had caught a taxi by now. It was in the time it took for the umpire to eject the Mets coach for unsportsmanlike conduct, there was no other time in the last half an hour that the fellow would have taken his eyes from such a close game. The previous opening would have been the top of the eighth, before the 4 run rally. _[Angel turns red.]_

INSTRO. I see.

BLOND. _[angry]_ Excuse me. _[Extinguishes the cigarette butt on the lapel of Roger's damp coat. Stalks out into the rain.]_

ROGER. _[to departing Angel]_ You're excused. _[to Dastun]_ What's with her? _[brushes ashes off of his damaged coat.]_

INSTRO. I do believe that was rather rude.

ROGER. _[offers his hand]_ Roger Smith and this is my one-time college, Daniel Dastun.

INSTRO. _[takes hand]_ Pleased to meet you, I suppose. Instro. This is my father.

AMADEUS. Roger Smith, the Human Behaviors expert, I presume. I am Amadeus, an inventor.

ROGER. You presume correctly. Good to meet you.

R. DOROTHY. _[She pulls metal tulip from the basket and holds it up to the gentlemen. Her voice is mechanical and distorted.]_ Would you like to buy a flower?

ROGER. What the heck is that?

DASTUN. It looks like a flower made from a can of some sort.

R. DOROTHY. A tomato soup can to be precise.

INSTRO. I'm terribly sorry, but I am not carrying much money.

DASTUN. Yeah, sorry but I'm not carrying any change.

R. DOROTHY. Very well, I suppose that I shall not be able to help my aged father.

ROGER. Your technique is terrible.

R. DOROTHY. Technique?

ROGER. Yes, your technique. You aren't sympathetic enough for people. Why don't you take off that shawl?

_[R. Dorothy removes the shawl to reveal a half finished face. The rest is a complex mass of exposed circuitry, motors, and metallic tendons.]_

ROGER. Yeesh, you can put it back on now.

R. DOROTHY. If you buy a flower, I will. I made them myself.

ROGER. Did you now? _[pulls a bill from his pocket and exchanges it for a rusted rose. R. Dorothy moves with the sounds of whining servos. Dorothy replaces her shawl.]_

INSTRO. Well, the storm is letting up a bit, I should get a cab for us, father.

AMADEUS. Are you sure? You don't have an umbrella.

INSTRO. I'll be fine. _[leaves shelter]_

AMADEUS. Such a pure child.

ROGER. Yes, I suppose that he might be considered a child.

AMADEUS. I suppose that you may not understand it, but he IS my child, because I am his father.

ROGER. If you want to look at it that way.

R. DOROTHY. How else would one look at it?

ROGER. Over attachment, it's common among needy humans.

R. DOROTHY. That is a horrible thing to say.

ROGER. What is?

R. DOROTHY. That you don't believe that androids can have parents.

ROGER. Well it's true.

AMADEUS. It's hard to believe that so many brilliant thoughts came from such a narrow minded mind as yours. _[Instro waves to him from the street in front of the museum.] _ Good night to you all. _[Exits, hunched against the light rain.]_

DASTUN. Well, it's getting late. Good night. _[he decided to put a bill into R. Dorothy's basket as he passes her and tips his hat]_

R. DOROTHY. Thank you.

ROGER. Anyway, it's the truth. Parenting is a biological function, it's impossible for androids to have parents and I can prove it to you.

R. DOROTHY. How?

ROGER. I would, if I had the time. _[He leaves R. Dorothy alone beneath the stone pediment. In his hand, he twirls the rusted rose.]_

== END ACT 1 ==

That is all for today. I hope that a night of rest will allow me to regain my equilibrium.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright 


	8. Shavian Dreams 2

Shavian Dreams: Act 2 

==Act 2==

_[It is a rainy day. Dorothy wears the same and ragged dress. She stands in Roger's waiting room looking out the window. She is wet and holds a damp towel. She is shrouded in shadow. Roger ascends the elevator. Roger fixes his tie as he enters nears the darkened figure. He looks like birthday boy about to open his presents.]_

ROGER. I have an rule that only comely young women can unconditionally enter my mansion. _[He comes close enough to see her.]_ Oh, it's you. _[She turns toward him. His expression sours. He throws himself on the couch.]_ Norman must be getting senile. What do you want? 

R. DOROTHY. _[Mechanical voiced]_ I have come for your explanation. 

ROGER. Of what? _[Loosens his cravat.]_

R. DOROTHY. Of why an android cannot have parents. 

ROGER. Ah, that. Simply, because parenthood is a function of biology. 

R. DOROTHY. Is parenthood also not a function of emotion? 

ROGER. Yes, but an android is a substitution for a human vessel, a seemingly perfect one, but ultimately false. 

R. DOROTHY. But what if the feelings are real? 

ROGER. That's my point, the feelings are not real. They too are a function of biology. No matter what they think they feel, it's for a created and unnatural being. Your creator manufactured you for a purpose, probably a substitution for another person, a wife, a daughter, a niece, or an old flame. Am I right? 

R. DOROTHY. You are right on one count. There was a Dorothy Wayneright, the daugther of Timothy Wayneright. He is my father. 

ROGER. Timothy Wayneright. That would explain why you're such a well built machine. _[He appraises her perfect hourglass figure.]_

R. DOROTHY. You said that you would offer proof for your statements, yet all you offer are more statements, mere assumptions. 

ROGER. Fine then, let me think about it for a second. 

R. DOROTHY. I thought that you already had proof. 

ROGER. I knew that I could prove it. _[He puts a hand to his forehead.]_

R. DOROTHY. That is not the same as proof. Well, I am waiting. 

ROGER. Hold on just a moment longer. 

R. DOROTHY. Don't strain yourself on my account. 

ROGER. That was almost witty. _[Continues pondering.]_ Holmes once said. "Eliminate all other factors and the one which remains must be the truth." _[R. Dorothy remains silent and stares.]_ With my resources and my expertise in human behavior, I can pass you off as a human. 

R. DOROTHY. What does that have to do with parenting? 

ROGER. Parenting is only one type of human relationship. If you can mimic a person and interact with other people, you'll see that there is always a gap between the real and and created. How does that sound? 

R. DOROTHY. That sounds extremely frivolous and besides that, convoluted reasoning. Good day to you. I need to work for a living, unlike some who can lounge about in dark clothing and think about how to disprove an android's parentage. 

ROGER. Experience is the best teacher. And I must say that this is one experiment that I, the number one negotiator in Paradigm city, cannot pass up. 

R. DOROTHY. I thought that you were a human behavior expert. 

ROGER. A negotiator needs to be an expert on people. The first order of business is to fix your broken mama-box into a real voice _[Leans forward and presses the top of the griffin ornament. He speaks into it.]_ Norman, please come to the waiting room. There's an android here who could use your mechanical touch. 

NORMAN. _[through the telecom]_ Very good, Master Roger. 

ROGER. One moment, miss-? 

R. DOROTHY. R. Dorothy, R. Dorothy Wayneright. I said that I was leaving. 

ROGER. Nonsense, Dorothy. Why would you want to? You are being offered the services of Roger Higgins. 

R. DOROTHY. Higgins? 

ROGER. Yes, Higgins. Is there something wrong with that? 

_[Norman, the penguin clad butler, enters the room. He carries a toolbox.]_

NORMAN. Master Roger. Miss Dorothy, if you'll please have a seat. _[Dorothy takes an stuffed armchair. He approaches her. Norman pulls a device from the box and begins to scan her throat.]_ We'll need to go down to the workshop to fix this. _[looks at Roger significantly.]_

ROGER. Go ahead. 

Norman. Very good, sir. _[to Dorothy]_ If you'll follow me. _[replaces tool in box.]_

_[Norman and Dorothy take the elevator down. As they leave, Roger reaches for the ornament again. Action follows Norman and Dorothy down past the Big O into a workshop. Norman gestures to an examination table. Dorothy puts the damp towel on a counter and lies down on the table. Norman begins his work on her throat. After he is finished, he asks her to test the scale. Do, Re, Mi, etc. He adjusts her voice again.]_

NORMAN. While you are here, I can also fix your skin. Please take off your dress. 

R. DOROTHY. _[her voice is more human, though flat]_ I can't do that, not for a stranger. 

NORMAN. I am very sorry, but please think of me as a doctor. _[he prepares tools and a 2 ft by 4 ft hot metal plate. Sheets of skin-like tissue are placed upon the heated plate.]_

R. DOROTHY. Very well, but I am keeping my shift on. 

NORMAN. I wouldn't have it any other way. 

_[R. Dorothy stands and reluctantly strips to her stained and dingy shift. Circuitry is also exposed on her torso.]_

NORMAN. I will repair your arms and face. _[He holds up false skin to her face and begins to cut it out the eye holes with a scalpel. Norman works efficiently.]_

R. DOROTHY. Why is he doing this? 

NORMAN. That is not my place to answer. 

R. DOROTHY. Based on your experience with Roger, why do you think he's doing this? 

NORMAN. He is a man of his word. If he promised you something, even in the most facetious of tones, he will follow through on it. That is the sort of man he is. _[he finishes with her face]_ There. Not a bad job, if I do say so myself. 

R. DOROTHY. That still doesn't answer why. 

NORMAN. I suppose it doesn't. But that is the best that I can tell you. 

_[lull in the conversation]_

R. DOROTHY. Is he married? _[he starts on her right arm]_

NORMAN. Goodness, no. It is quite against his grain to be anything but a confirmed bachelor. Now only the left arm remains. 

R. DOROTHY. Then no woman has to suffer him then. 

_[Noman finishes the treatment. Dorothy flexes her newly covered arm and touches her face. Norman pulls out a mirror. Dorothy continues to prober her face.]_

R. DOROTHY. So this is what I was supposed to look like. 

NORMAN. Please wait here, I shall return in a moment with more suitable clothing. 

_[Norman returns with a black clothing over his arm.]_

NORMAN. Please return to the waiting room after you are finished dressing. 

_[Dorothy pulls on the black stockings and dress. She folds up her old clothing and carries it over one arm as she makes her way across the catwalk in the hangar that houses the Big O. She looks up at Big O for a moment before returning to the elevator.   
Loud voices come from the waiting room. One is Dastun's. The other is scratchy and dusty; it belongs to Timothy Wayneright. Mr. Wayneright is dressed in a shabby suit. Dorothy enters the room. The three men are standing and talking.]_

WAYNERIGHT. What do you intend to do with my granddaughter? 

ROGER. Help her, of course. 

WAYNERIGHT. Sir, I do not even know you. _[notices Dorothy]_ Dorothy! There you are. Has he done anything to you? _[He holds out his had to her. She takes it.]_

DOROTHY. No, father. His butler has only fixed me. 

WAYNERIGHT. Your voice. What has happened to your voice? 

DOROTHY. It has been repaired. 

ROGER. As you can see, I only have honorable intentions. 

WAYNERIGHT. How can I be sure of that? 

DASTUN. Mr. Wayneright is right, Roger. He doesn't know you. _[Dorothy lets go of her father's hand and faces other speakers.]_

ROGER. Listen. All I want to do is advance science. In the meantime, I would be helping her. If she could pass off as human, she could find a someone willing to hire her. 

WAYNERIGHT. Young man, how do I know that you are not going to try to take advantage of her? 

ROGER. Is there anything to take advantage of? 

DOROTHY. Quite a bit actually. 

ROGER. _[glances at her with a raised eyebrow and then clears his throat]_ Anyway, what more can I do to show you my good will? 

WAYNERIGHT. A little respect would help. You have continually referred to Dorothy as "it" and "the android". I would never leave her in the care of someone so callous. So utterly devoid of feeling. 

ROGER. Though it shocks me to be called calloused, I must say that it is rather difficult to show respect to a mere machine, no matter how well built it is. 

WAYNERIGHT. _[angrily]_ Now wait here just a second- 

DASTUN. Calm down, Mr. Wayneright. I believe that we have some more serious business to attend to. Now, Miss, please tell me how you got here. 

DOROTHY. After last night, I wanted to speak to Roger again, so I asked the grocer who knew the laundry woman who knew the butcher and told me where to find Roger. 

DASTUN. I see. At least we know that this wasn't a kidnaping. 

DOROTHY. Kidnap? 

DASTUN. Your 'father', called me up to report one, but he was evidently mistaken. 

WAYNERIGHT. You call this mistaken? This barbarian has obviously deceived my daughter - 

ROGER. _[Interrupting.]_ So how else could I show my good intentions? Would $500 do? 

WAYNERIGHT. _[Enraged.]_ WHAT? HOW DARE YOU!?! EVEN PARADIGM FORBIDS OUTRIGHT SLAVERY! 

ROGER. Androids cannot be not slaves. Humans can be slaves. 

WAYNERIGHT. _[Changing color. Whispers.]_ How dare you? _[Begins coughing and wheezing. Dorothy comes to his side. He is wracked by coughing.]_

DASTUN. It IS true that androids can be registered as property, but... 

DOROTHY. _[Looking between Roger and her father.]_ How much did you say? 

ROGER. $500. 

_[Wayneright gurgles with fury.]_

DOROTHY. I make on average $15 a week, that is $780 a year. That is far too low. You must pay for at least 20 years of my average receipt. 

DASTUN. Twenty years IS the average life span of an android these days, give or take a few months. 

ROGER. Okay that's $15,600. Let's make that an even $20,000. 

WAYNERIGHT. Dorothy, how could you? 

DOROTHY. _[Steps away from Wayneright.]_ I am doing the best that I can to take care of you, father. It's what any child would do. [Wayneright's shoulders collapse.] 

ROGER. Dastun, if you could witness this. _[Dastun gives a questioning look at Dorothy, who nods. He looks at Roger. Dastun reads his look and then slowly nods as well.]_

==End Act 2==


	9. Shavian Dreams 3

Shavian Dreams: Act 3 

== Act 3==

_[Top of the Roger's mansion. Norman and Roger are outside; they lean against the parapet wall. They are sharing a bottle of port. Each has a shot glass. It is cloudy. Through the wall of windows, they can see Dorothy practicing a conversation in a mirror. She is wearing black.]_

DASTUN. It's been three weeks, and I still can't believe that you actually did it. 

ROGER. Did what? 

DASTUN. Bought an android. 

ROGER. I didn't actually buy her. I just gave Mr. Wayneright a token of my goodwill. 

DASTUN. I witnessed you give him money for her. 

ROGER. You witnessed me giving money to her. She gave to her father of her own free will. She can walk away anytime she wants. 

DASTUN. Does she know that? 

ROGER. Of course, but there's no reason for her to walk away now. 

DASTUN. She's made quite a bit of progress. 

ROGER. She certainly has. 

_[Flashback. Dastun, Dorothy, and Roger stand in the waiting room. Dorothy is wearing black.]_

ROGER. Men shake hands upon greeting each other. Observe. [to Dastun] Hello, my name is Roger Higgins. _[Offers his hand to a dubious Dastun]._

DASTUN. _[takes Roger's hand]_ Dastun. Dan Dastun. 

ROGER. A firm grip is the key to a good impression. _[clamps down, Dastun winces.]_

_[Dastun tightens his grip. It becomes a match of deathgrips. Both men grimaces at each other.]_

ROGER. _[through gritted teeth]_ You can let go now. 

DASTUN. _[through equally gritted teeth]_ You first. 

ROGER. Both at once. 

DASTUN. At the count of three. 

ROGER. Fine 

ROGER + DASTUN. 1-2-3. _[Both release.]_

ROGER. _[flexing his fingers]_ And that's how men shake hands. Now women shake with the tips of their fingers and do it gently. _[He holds his hand out to Dorothy.] _Hello my name is Roger, nice to meet you. 

R. DOROTHY. _[takes his hand]_ R. Dorothy Wayneright, likewise. _[grips his hand lightly at first, then after the first shake, closes her fingers like a vise. Roger's knees buckle.]_

ROGER. Guh, ugh. You can stop now. That's enough. Gah, uncle. UNCLE! UNCLE! [Dorothy lets go. He gets back up massaging his hand. Glares at her.] 

R. DOROTHY. Did I get it right? 

DASTUN. I'd say that you did. 

ROGER. No, you insufferable automation. I said that women shake hands gently. 

R. DOROTHY. I liked the other way better. 

_[Back to the present.]_

DASTUN. Do you think that she's ready? 

ROGER. The question is if I'm ready. _[heads to the penthouse carrying the port and his glass. Dastun follows with his glass.]_

DASTUN. For what? 

ROGER. Well, I can always use the backup. 

DASTUN. And what about me? 

ROGER. You're too smart. You tend to duck. _[Opens the door. Enters the room where Dorothy sits.] _You can stop with the narcissism. 

R. DOROTHY. _[stops talking to her reflection]_ Shouldn't that be my line? 

ROGER. Your attempts at humor still fall short, my pupil. It's time for a dry run. Let's get going. 

R. DOROTHY. Where are we going? 

ROGER. To my parents' place. 

_[Roger and Dorothy take the Griffin. Dastun drives his own commuter land yacht. They drive across the domeless city and come to a stop at Roger's parent's place. They ascend an elevator and make their way to his parents' place. They knock on the door; the door opens.  
Roger's Dad is wearing a stained wife beater. A radio announces a ball game in the background.]_

ROGER'S DAD. _[cheerful for a crotchety man]_ Dastun, what brings you here? 

DASTUN. I was just in the neighborhood and thought that I would stop by. 

DAD. Great, want a Bud? 

DASTUN. No thanks, I'm on duty in a little while. 

DAD. _[to Dorothy]_ I'm Roger Senior. _[offers his hand. Roger watches with keen interest.]_

R. DOROTHY. R Dorothy Wayneright. How do you do? _[takes his hand and shakes it gently]_

DAD. I'm well, and you? _[releases hands]_

R. DOROTHY. No complaints. _[gives Roger her usual dour look, waits for a comment]_

_[Before Roger can enter, R.'s Dad slams the door shut.]_

DAD. I think that the missus is waiting for you in the kitchen. Why don't you go in? Make yourselves at home. 

_[Dorothy and Dastun head to the door that R.'s Dad is facing. Loud banging at the entrance door.]_

DAD. _[in background]_ Oh, it's you again. 

_[Dorothy and Dastun cross the small room and open the door to a large Victorian-style sitting room. It is far too large to fit into the apartment. Roger's Mother sits on a divan, dressed in a large dress. Otherwise, she is her same slightly spaced out and kind self.  
Radio can still be heard from the adjacent room. There are chairs and couches arranged for a social gathering. A grand piano dominated the room.]_

ROGER'S MOM. Hello Dastun, nice to see you again. 

DASTUN. It's good to see you, too. Mrs. Smith, this is R. Dorothy Wayneright. 

_[R. Dorothy raises an eyebrow at the name, Smith.]_

R. DOROTHY. _[curtsies]_ How do you do Mrs. Smith? 

MOM. Oh, I'm well. Why don't you have a seat? _[Dastun sits in a plain wooden chair. Dorothy sits in another.]_

_[Roger barges in and slams the door shut, which cuts off the radio. He plunks down on the piano bench.]_

MOM. So what brings you here? 

ROGER. Business. 

MOM. What sort of business? 

ROGER. Mother, have you met Dorothy yet? 

MOM. Why, yes. Is she why you haven't come home in so long to see your poor mother? 

R. DOROTHY. Actually, we only met a short time ago. 

MOM. Of course. I'm happy, though. It seems like Roger might finally settle down. 

ROGER. Settle down? What are you talking about? 

R. DOROTHY. Is that what you wish to see, Mrs. Smith? Roger settled down? 

MOM. I want what's best for my Roger. I just hope that Roger will be able to make you happy. 

ROGER. Mother, this isn't what you think- 

MOM. So when's the biiiiiig daaaaaaay? 

R. DOROTHY. It hasn't been set. It's a long way off. 

MOM. Pity, but these things take their own time. 

ROGER. Mother, listen to me. 

MOM. _[completely ignores Roger]_ Roger may seem like an utter cad at times, but I assure you that he is far more shy and sensitive underneath. 

R. DOROTHY. Yes, he seems that way sometimes. 

ROGER. Dastun, help me out. 

DASTUN. _[arms crossed]_ I'm not getting involved. Like you said, I'm too smart for this one. 

ROGER. [mouthing to Dorothy in grossly exaggerated words] Weather. 

R. DOROTHY. Mrs. Smith, how do you find the weather? 

MOM. Oh, it's fine. It's damp, but it's always damp. 

R. DOROTHY. True, mean the relative humidity has been 82.5% during the last five days. The mean temperature has been 33 degrees centigrade, which classifies the weather as muggy. With the low windspeeds, it could be described as stifling. The nights could also be calls sultry. 

MOM. I couldn't agree more. Now please tell me about these sultry nights. 

_[Doorbell rings.]_

MOM. Will you please get that one, Roger? 

_[Roger is too engrossed in studying the conversation. Dastun rises and opens another door, not the entrance Dorothy & Co. used. Amadeus and Instro stand at the door.]_

AMADEUS. Greetings. 

INSTRO. Salutations. 

DASTUN. Hi. 

MOM. _[to Roger in a disapproving tone]_ Roger, really. _[to the newcomers in a more pleasant voice]_ Please come in and take a seat. 

_[Amadeus and Instro enter. Amadeus sits at the couch, crosses his legs. Instro pauses at the piano, but moves on and stands behind Amadeus. Dastun resumes his seat.]_

MOM. The more, the merrier. Amadeus, Instro. These are Dastun, my son Roger, and Dorothy Wayneright. 

AMADEUS. Hello all. I don't wish to seem rude, but I wish to bring up some important news. The next Friends of Sentients meeting is tomorrow night. Both Instro and I will be attending. 

R. DOROTHY. Friends of Sentients? 

AMADEUS. Yes, a society that attempts to spread awareness about androids to humankind. Today, many humans feel threatened by androids. We hope to alleviate such tensions with gatherings. 

MOM. Hopefully, we'll reach a consensus concerning the ball. 

AMADEUS. Yes, most of the details have been ironed out. 

ROGER. A ball. When is it? 

AMADEUS. Why would you want to know? I think that you made your views quite clear on humans and androids. 

ROGER. I am highly interested. So when is it? 

AMADEUS. Two months from now. Wednesday September 18th, starting at 9 PM at the Celestial Hall. I shall leave my card. Instro shall be on the venue; he has quite a bit of talent. 

INSTRO. My father exaggerates. 

ROGER. Dorothy, are you interested? 

R. DOROTHY. Not really. 

AMADEUS. But you should be. It is a great opportunity. 

ROGER. It would be. Dastun is coming, too. 

DASTUN. Wait a moment, I don't dance. 

MOM. You really should, you're shut up at work all of the time. How do you expect to meet any nice girls, if you don't get out. 

ROGER. Mom, you're incorrigible. _[notices Instro eyeing the piano]_ Instro, would you like to take the piano? 

INSTRO. I would not want to impose. 

ROGER. No, not at all._[Roger moves far side of the room. Dorothy's eyes follow him briefly.]_

INSTRO. Are you sure? 

ROGER. Quite sure. 

_[Instro takes the seat and plays an elegant Mozart piano concerto. They clap; Roger is loudest.]_

ROGER. Good, quite good. 

INSTRO. Thank you. _[he stands from the piano bench. Dorothy gets up and approaches.]_ Have you ever played before, Miss Dorothy? 

R. DOROTHY. A few times. 

MOM. Why don't you give it a try. 

_[Dorothy sits down awkwardly. The dream Dorothy is far less familiar with the piano than her real self. Instro corrects her stance and posture. She shies slightly from his touch. Instro picks out a simple piece for her from the book of sheet music sitting on the piano. Dorothy plays it correctly, but flatly.]_

INSTRO. Well done, but it could improve. 

ROGER. It was flat. 

INSTRO. I beg your pardon? 

ROGER. That was worse than a player piano. _[R. Dorothy pages energetically through the sheet music until she reaches the end of the book. She leaves it closed.]_ It was mere mimicry. 

_[Dorothy improvises a jazz piano piece. Roger becomes quiet. Dorothy occasionally glares at Roger over the piano. She eventually stops playing and closes the fall board with crisp and cool movements.]_

INSTRO. Superb, you must play at the ball. 

R. DOROTHY. That may not be fully appropriate. Just three weeks ago- 

ROGER. Then it's settled; we three are headed for that ball. 

INSTRO. Splendid, I look forward to seeing you all there. 

R. DOROTHY. I don't believe that I have agreed to anything yet. 

ROGER. You'll come, because it is the final test. 

AMADEUS. Here's my card. Call me in a month and the tickets should be ready by then. 

ROGER. Much appreciated. 

R. DOROTHY. Am I ready for this? 

ROGER. You will be or I'm not the best in Paradigm. Besides it'll be just in time for your next upgrade. 

==End Act 3==


	10. Shavian Dreams 4

Shavian Dreams: Act 4 

==Act 4==

_[It is the night after the ball. Norman preceeds Dastun and R. Dorothy into the waiting room.   
R. Dorothy has been transformed. Her skin and hair look organic. Her long hair has been piled into a mass of coils with pins. She wears a black dress that passes her knees by an inch. Her accessories match or complement her dress: heels, stockings, handbag, gloves, earrings, and a bracelet. However, her eyes are still not quite human.  
Dastun wears a tux. Dastun's left foot is wrapped in bandages; he leans on a crutch.]_

R. DOROTHY. _[her voice is more natural]_ I'm terribly sorry about your foot, Dastun. 

DASTUN. It's okay, it was my fault. I missed that last step. Where's Roger? He left ahead of us. 

NORMAN. He stopped by. He said that he would be out for a bit. 

R. DOROTHY. He left with another woman. 

DASTUN. Well, that's Roger for you. I'd best be going. _[hobbles away]_ I'll see you around. _[nods a salute to Dorothy]_

NORMAN. Allow me. 

DASTUN. No, that's fine. I'd rather do this myself. 

NORMAN. As you wish. 

R. DOROTHY. Dastun. _[he pauses and half turns]_

DASTUN. Is something wrong? 

R. DOROTHY. No, nothing. Thank you. Goodbye. 

DASTUN. No problem. Good night. _[he leaves mumbling under his breath]_ Patterson and Groucho take West side tonight. Bronson's still out. 

NORMAN. Good night, Mr. Dastun. _[to Dorothy]_ Is there something I can get you? 

R. DOROTHY. No. But, please, can you stay and chat? _[she takes a seat on a sturdy chair. Norman sits across from her.]_

NORMAN. Certainly. 

R. DOROTHY. How have you been? 

NORMAN. I have been quite well. And you? 

R. DOROTHY. I've been OK. 

NORMAN. You seemed to be troubled by something. 

R. DOROTHY. Perhaps. I don't want to be a bother. 

NORMAN. You're not a bother at all. _[doorbell chimes]_ One moment, please. _[Norman leaves.]_

R. DOROTHY. _[speaks aloud to the empty room]_ It is strange, it is such a small thing, but it weighs heavily on my mind. _[she stands and walks over to view the night skyline] _Why should I care? Why should I care what he thinks? I have a future to think about, now. And father. He seemed so sad giving me my new skin. Why? 

_[Norman and Instro enter.]_

NORMAN. R. Instro wishes to see you, Miss Dorothy. 

R. DOROTHY. Instro, what brings you here? 

INSTRO. You left so suddenly tonight, I wanted to see if you were alright. 

R. DOROTHY. I am alright. Dastun's foot isn't. _[Norman leaves quietly.]_ Please take a seat. _[Dorothy sits back down. She shifts it to look out onto the city. Instro pulls up another seat to sit beside her.]_

INSTRO. How is Dastun? 

R. DOROTHY. It was a bruise, an ugly one, but it should heal soon. 

INSTRO. So what did you think of the ball? 

R. DOROTHY. _[she sits and looks straight ahead, while Instro looks at her]_ It was noisy and crowded. I'm not used to of such things. 

INSTRO. Was it the humans? I know that some androids are uncomfortable aroundhumans. 

R. DOROTHY. No. 

INSTRO. It was your first time playing in front of a crowd. Perhaps you were nervous, I was nervous during my first recital. 

R. DOROTHY. No, I thought that I would be, but I wasn't. 

_[Silence. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.]_

INSTRO. I don't know how to bring this up, but I could not help but to notice the way that you played tonight. Your music, it was lugubrious. 

R. DOROTHY. I suppose that is one word for it. 

INSTRO. It was melancholy. There was such feeling in it. It was beautiful. 

INSTRO. R. Dorothy, I have never met an android like you before. 

R. DOROTHY. _[she looks at him]_ I don't know how to respond to that. 

INSTRO. You don't need to. Are you tired? 

R. DOROTHY. I was before, but not now. 

INSTRO. Would you like to be out there? _[gestures out of the window]_ How much of the city have you seen? 

R. DOROTHY. Sometimes I feel that I have seen too much of it. Sometimes not enough. 

INSTRO. And tonight? 

R. DOROTHY. Tonight, I want to see something else besides these walls and this window. _she stands]_

INSTRO. Let's. _[he stands]_

_[Norman enters with a tray of tea and cookies.]_

NORMAN. Leaving so soon, R. Instro? 

R. DOROTHY. I'm sorry, Norman. We are going out for a bit. 

NORMAN. Enjoy yourselves. 

INSTRO. Thank you. Have a very good night. 

NORMAN. You too, sir. Good night, Miss Dorothy. 

R. DOROTHY. I'll see you later, Norman. Thank you. 

_[Instro and Dorothy descend to the front of the building. Instro hails a carriage. The carriage is drawn by a bionic horse and driven by an android coachman wearing tails. Instro and Dorothy board. Instro asks her a question. Dorothy shrugs. Instro gives orders to the driver.  
They ride in silence through the barren streets. They ride past the art deco skyscrapers and stone edifices. The carriage goes through a park. Toward morning, they return to the Smith mansion. Dorothy bids Instro farewell.  
Dorothy rides the elevator up. She pulls pins from her hair. Her tresses spill down in waves. She stops the elevator at a lit level and enters Roger's office. A single lamp in the corner dimly lights the room. Roger sits his desk with a glass of wine in one hand. A mostly full bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sits on the desk. A collection of hourglasses sit at a nearby table.]_

ROGER. 'Morning. Enjoy yourself? 

R. DOROTHY. I suppose that I did. _[she stops at the table of hourglasses ]_

ROGER. What did you think of the ball? 

R. DOROTHY. It was not disagreeable. 

ROGER. Not disagreeable. I suppose that it wasn't. It was a success. You fooled quite a few people. You've come far in a few short months. 

R. DOROTHY. Thank you. 

ROGER. Did you enjoy your time with your new beau? 

R. DOROTHY. And who might that be? _[flips hourglasses over one by one with a mechanically precise rhythm]_

ROGER. The honorable R. Instro of course. 

R. DOROTHY. We are just friends. _[continues to flip hourglasses]_

ROGER. Give it some time. 

R. DOROTHY. Tonight, I have learned that it is easier to talk about small and tangential things than what is really on our minds. _[the hourglasses are all in motion]_

ROGER. You've figured that out on your own. Congratulations. _[sips his wine]_

_[Dorothy remains quiet.]_

ROGER. Did you reach my conclusion? 

R. DOROTHY. Which conclusion? 

ROGER. About the gap that remains between the android and the human. You were able to interact with humans and observe some interactions. We effectively eliminated the external factors. So, did you? _[he sloshes the wine around in the glass, studies it]_

R. DOROTHY. No, I didn't. 

ROGER. Really? Didn't or wouldn't? 

R. DOROTHY. That isn't important. 

ROGER. I thought that was the foundation for all of this. 

R. DOROTHY. Was that all it was about? Your proof? 

ROGER. _[puzzled]_ That's where we began. 

R. DOROTHY. And it is finished. 

ROGER. I suppose it is. 

R. DOROTHY. Where do we go from here? 

ROGER. That's up to you. You've always been free to go where you will, do what you want. 

R. DOROTHY. Is that your answer? 

ROGER. Yes. 

R. DOROTHY. Very well, then. 

_[Dorothy marches to Roger's desk. With a sweep of an arm, she clears the desk of papers and books. The bottle teeters on the edge. She swings herself onto Roger's desk in a single smooth motion and lands, seated, on the bureau.   
He sits up, surprised. Dorothy's stockinged legs are close enough to feel his body heat. The hem of her gown rides slightly above the knees. She looks down at him.]_

R. DOROTHY. I've changed. Look at me, Roger. 

ROGER. _[he looks up at her]_ I'm looking. What am I supposed to see? 

R. DOROTHY. Look closer, then. Try standing. 

ROGER. Alright, then. _[Roger pushes back his chair as he stands. His is close to her, slightly to her right. He sets his glass onto the table.]_

R. DOROTHY. You are supposed to see me. What do you see? 

ROGER. An android. A friend. 

R. DOROTHY. Is that all? 

ROGER. What else am I supposed to see? 

_[Dorothy remains silent, grips the edge of the table. A tear gathers at the corner of her eye and flows out. Roger reaches out and catches it with the tip of his finger.]_

ROGER._[clinically]_ A tear. _[he tastes it] _ Salty. 

R. DOROTHY. _[throat tightens]_ Is it a real tear? If it isn't, what is? _[wipes away another before it can fall]_

ROGER. Are you crying? I mean, ahem, why are you crying? 

R. DOROTHY. _[she lowers her head.]_ Because, I hurt. 

ROGER. Why do you hurt? 

R. DOROTHY. Because, I love you. _[Roger flinches. R. Dorothy rises from her seat. She buries her face into his chest. His hands cups her shoulders.]_

ROGER. _[gently]_ Why does it hurt? 

R. DOROTHY. You know perfectly why. You said it yourself: it's the foundation of it all. 

_[Dorothy separates them by a small distance.  
Eyes meet. A moment passes.  
Roger reaches his hand out again and touches her chin. She moves her hand to brush it away, but stops once her gloved hands touch his. She allows her face to be guided to face his. Roger slowly bends down. Dorothy seems to almost acquiesce.]_

R. DOROTHY. _[quietly]_ stop _[she jerks back. Her hand upsets the glass; it falls off the table. Roger hesitates.]_

R. DOROTHY _[insistently]_ No, stop it. _[The glass stops falling inches from the floor. The red wine is half cascaded out. Roger freezes almost in kissing posture.]_

_[The stage lights and lamp snap off. Two spotlights snap back on. One is focused on R. Dorothy. One is aimed offstage, toward the stage's left, and illuminates Wayneright. He is wearing the same white suit that she last saw him in.  
She turns around, the massive bureau effortlessly slides back. She steps away from the frozen Roger.]_

R. DOROTHY. Father. 

WAYNERIGHT. Don't you want to see what comes next? 

R. DOROTHY. Yes. 

WAYNERIGHT. Isn't that what you wanted? 

R. DOROTHY. Not this way. This isn't right. You said that sculptor carved himself when he chiseled Galatea. 

WAYNERIGHT. Of course, but the other end of the chisel is subtle. 

R. DOROTHY. But he _[gestures to the frozen Roger Higgins]_ was right. There IS a gap. I felt it. I can't explain it, but I felt it. It was clear as night and day. 

_[Shoes knock against the thin carpet and echo through the still theater. As a shadowed figure marches down the aisle, the audience is revealed to be a mass of cardboard cutouts. A young woman walks into the limelight beside T. Wayneright; she is the human version of R. Dorothy. She has short hair, and wears a black dress that looks more like R. Dorothy's daily wear. She takes her father's right arm.]_

DOROTHY 0. So that's why you aborted it. I'm surprised at you, Sis. I thought that Dad made you from sterner stuff than that.  
_[Loudly]_ Haven't you realized that when it's night, somewhere else it's day? It's always night AND day. Dawn and dusk are happening right now, somewhere. 

R. DOROTHY. What does that have to do with me? 

DOROTHY 0. That it's light outside of this dreary theater. Act 5 is going to begin soon. Go on! 

_[R. Dorothy reluctantly leaves the stage. The silent orchestra pit is full of cutouts.]_

DOROTHY 0. _[smiling]_ Come on, that isn't your Roger, and you know it. Come on! It's not like me to be optimistic. I'm usually the dour and sarcastic one. 

_[R. Dorothy hops down from the stage. When she does, she reverts to her usual self, plainly dressed. She glances backwards. The glass and dream Roger are still suspended.]_

R. DOROTHY _[waking world voice]_ What happens next? _[approaches father and sister. Comes into their circle of light.]_

DOROTHY 0. _[smile becomes sad.]_ You know that better than I would. Take care of your Roger, OK? _[disengages from her father and hugs R. Dorothy, the android awkwardly returns the hug. They break apart. R. Dorothy pecks Timothy Wayneright on the cheek.]_

R. DOROTHY. Good bye, Father. Good bye, Sister. 

_[R. Dorothy walks away rapidly. They wave to her. After several steps, she runs at a quick human pace up the aisle. Camera changes to her jostled point of view. The entire crowd is full of cutouts. She reaches a double door with metal pushbars. They are labeled "Exit" in block lettering. She explodes out of the door into blinding white light, and the film reel runs into a blank white.]_

==End of Act 4==


	11. By the Numbers

Dear Diary: By the Numbers 

Mon 14 Nov 40 PY   
Dear Diary,  
A list of expenses. 
    
    Estimated Regular Expenses
    
    Food*			$20 per month
    Housing			$300 per month
    Utilities		$15 per month
    Phone Bill		$35 per month
    5 line ad in the Sun	$5 per week, $15 a month
    Transportation		$1 per day for Metro, $25 per month
    Film, Developing	$25 per month
    			-----		
    			$435 per month
    
    Estimated Occasional Expenses
    Security Deposit	$175
    License Fee		$75
    Basic Office Supplies	$25
    Desk Lamp		$10
    Bureau (used)		$75
    Filing cabinet		$38
    Telephone		$40
    Curtains		$20
    Coffee maker		$10
    Camera			$50
    			----
    			$518
    * for clientele
    
    Saved Pay = $1,150.53
    

I haven't quite made up my mind yet. 

R. Dorothy Wayneright 


	12. On Her Own 1

Dear Diary: On Her Own 

Tue 15 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
Roger finished the painting last night. It is more abstract than realistic. The face and eyes hold little expression. I am not sure if it says more about him or me.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright

Wed 16 Nov 40 PY  
Last night, I decided to leave.  
My room is packed up. I have tried to remove all traces of R. Dorothy Wayneright from the walls, dressers, and closet. I succeeded in a half of an hour.   
Last night, I took a message from Mrs. Smith. She wanted to know what Roger had said to Mr. Smith to set him off. Mr. Smith had suffered a severe case of indigestion after the MP declared that his son was wanted for kidnapping. The extreme heartburn resembled a second heart attack.  
It was Roger's family business and did not concern me. Still, I was not happy about the silence. But that is not why I'm leaving.

I can still see my arms folding Roger in an embrace. I nearly killed him. I am his Achilles' heel. But that is not quite it either.

After I served him his morning coffee, I told him that I needed to talk to him. I told him that I was moving out. Roger didn't look surprised. He didn't ask why. He didn't try to stop me.  
"Everyone should try to live out their lives to the fullest," Roger lectured in his Roger-Smith-knows-all voice. "I won't stand in your way. But if you ever want to come back, there'll be a place for you."

He wasn't cold about it, but I am not sure how I feel about what he said. That's why I want to be on my own for now.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright


	13. On Her Own 2

On Her Own II 

Thu 17 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
I live in Kings now. Roger's mansion lies where Central Park meets the north side, near 135th street.  
My apartment is in a subdivision of an old soap factory. The bedroom is drafty, but I do not mind the cold. If I reach out my arms, I can touch the stained wallpaper on the opposing walls. A single window looks out onto a dirt lot behind the complex next door. Outside, a fire escape descends to the first story.  
The two narrow windows in the living room open onto the weathered brick face of the neighboring building. The living room will be my office. I am sitting on the floor and writing by glare of a bare bulbed lamp, which sits on the lone chair in the room. A threadbare door mat completes the decor.  
The kitchenette is cramped, and the half bath is half the size. I am glad that I do not have to use the commode, and I shall leave it at that. Public Bath #17 is a few blocks away. A twenty-four hour laundry mat is next to the bath house.  
The surrounding buildings are three-story brownstones and apartment complexes. Some of the lots lie in rubble, and the ruins have been sifted for piping, wiring, and even intact brick and masonry. Even these lots have tenants. Cardboard boxes, jury-rigged tents, and burning trash cans furnish these areas.  
In the distance, I can see the tops of the domes. They look larger from street level.  
Most of the neighbors are quiet. Loud arguments flare a few doors down and across the street, but quiet down after their neighbors out shout them.  
I accomplished several tasks today. I cleaned. I contacted several leads concerning furniture. I shall start work tomorrow; my ad is now in the newspaper: 

R. Dorothy Private Eye  
Paperwork $50 research pass  
Footwork $50/day expenses  
Phone: 16.718.2034  
Dolomite St, Old Soap Factory

I set rates a few dollars below the average of the others in the paper, since I am a newbie. I wrap myself in a shawl. The chair will serve as my bed tonight. I cannot bring myself to sleep on the floor.  
I am home, it is good to be home.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright 

Fri 18 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
I awoke with several vertebrae disks compressed in a strange way. It took an hour or so for the elastomeric material to rebound. In other words, I had back pain.  
In early the morning, I picked up my furniture. There were a few raised eyebrows on the street when I walked by carrying a bureau or a bed. The combination of my weight and the furniture made some of the apartment stairs creak alarmingly.  
Beer bottle littered the streets. Street cleaning and trash pick-up are on Monday evening. Each resident pays a service fee to the local Neighborhood Organization. It is part protection money, part street cleaning fee, and part utility bill.  
The life of P.I. is not glamorous. I realized this when I chose the job. In the muddle of Paradigm's Amnesia, much of the records were lost. What little remained is locked away by Paradigm. Drips and drabs of the records are released to the public. Paradigm created a labyrinth of rules to complement the fragmented records. Since businesses inside of the domes do business with the outside and the domes exapnd occasionally, the laws are written to include all of Paradigm, though there is no enforcement Outside.   
Outside, a sort of honor has settled between theives. P.I.s and lawyers argue before the Brothers of Justice, a powerful arbitration group respected by most groups. They are second to the MPs in fire power (I don't count the Megadeuses, they are in another class). The syndicates try to sort out their turf wars with trails of paper rather than hails of lead. When two groups fight, a third usually walks away with the prize. Dastun and Roger discussed it over dinner once.  
At eight, I was called by the Plumber's Union. Their headquarters were in a closet of a water filtration plant. A single bare light bulb lit the room. The leader had a square jaw and a five o'clock shadow at nine in the morning. He and his lieutenant wore stained jump suits. They needed leg work to claim the right to service the water mains around Gun Hill Road. Work meant pay, and they said that Utilities, Ltd. was muscling in on their work. I got a pass to enter Dome #6 and use the Archives for reasearch. I took a bus to the EL station, got searched at the station, and by noon, I was at the library. I scoured the reference cards and cross referenced musty books. My black dress is white with dust, and my hair is gritty with spider webs.  
At 2:00 PM sharp, I made it to the offices of Levine and Tang. They scanned the information and released my pay of $50. The Dome pass had already expired. I'll know how it went by the amount of business I get. I'm not sure why the lawyers did not contact me directly. They told me that different firms do it different ways.  
Right now, I have a dress and a head of hair to wash.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright 


	14. On Her Own 3

On Her Own III 

Sat 19 Nov 40 PY  
Dear Diary,  
I met one of my neighbors late last night.  
I was preparing for bed, when I heard footsteps tapping up the fire escape. I pulled a robe over my nightgown and then peered out of the window. Silhouetted against the moonlight, a man in dark clothes crept up the rusty stairs. After he had reached the landing above, I opened my window and pushed a hand against the fire escape. In spite of the rust, the construction was solid enough to support my weight.  
I slipped out of my room. The window shut with a slight squeak. I checked again, the man hadn't noticed. For once, I was grateful for Roger's wretched predilection for black. I followed the stranger. My slippers only made the slightest noise, while the burglar's (that's what I thought he was) shoes rang against the grilled treads. He stopped at an open window where a woman's undergarments and stockings hung on a wire ring.  
"I don't think those would fit," I observed.  
The man froze and then slowly turned around. His young face was surprisingly clean cut.  
"T-this isn't what you think," he stammered.  
"Then what the 'ELL is it?" a nasal voice hollered from inside the window. The 'what' came out as a 'wot', and the 'ELL was more fire siren than human voice.  
A green-faced apparition with bulging eyes appeared at the window. The man screamed at the sight. He attempted to barge past me. I put a hand into the middle of his chest that sent him tumbling back up the stairs. A well-swung frying pan from the window arrested his motion. I didn't stop the panicked man as he scampered down the stairs. If he could move that quickly, he probably hadn't been hurt badly.  
"And don't come back, Daniel!" the goblin screeched after him.  
"Shaddap!" a neighbor called.  
"Your mutha!"  
I turned to check that he didn't get into my place. The woman spoke in a sweet voice.  
"Hey, shugga. Whoi doantcha c'mon up and join me for uh kawp ov kawffie."  
"Excuse me? I didn't catch that."  
She repeated each anguished syllable again. This time I managed to understand that she was inviting me up for a cup of coffee.  
"One moment, I need to lock my window."  
I descended back to my apartment. A quick check indicated that Daniel had fled whimpering into the night. I locked the window. Before heading upstairs, I grabbed a tin of biscotti that I had bought from the bakery down the street. And that was how I met Loo-wEEEza or Louisa Rivers.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright 


	15. Slam

Slam 

Sat 19 Nov 40 PY (Late Night)  
Dear Diary,  
It was Saturday night in the underbelly of the old Desmond. Shaded lamps lit the basement. The air was smoky with the trails and drafts from the ends of two dozen lit white and yellow cigarettes. On the wall, a poster featured a lit cigarette perched at the edge of a table; a ruby red lip-print ringed the filter. Underneath the picture were the words: "Marlboroughs: Mild as May".  
After a day of sightseeing (she called it shopping), I had accompanied Louisa to a cafe. The round tables were filled. Each woman had a cup of coffee. We were the only ones not smoking. The other women wore lean gowns of somber colors that clung to their thin bodies and draped limply from their waists to their knees. Fur stoles were draped their shoulders, and their caps that resembled toadstool lids. Big-boned and short Louisa stood out in her long dress of bright green. It matched her well.  
A counter sat near the exit. They sold coffee. There were two types: black and extra black. Fifteen and twenty cent cups. That was it. No milk, sugar, or cream was offered or asked for. On the far side from the counter, was a stage. One naked bulb lit the platform. One of the narrow women stood in front of the disk and ring microphone. She held a cigarette in her left and a folded notebook in her right. She punctuated her strident stanzas with plumes of smoke. The woman recited with the clipped accent usually heard in the Domes.

> My Daddy was a Street Corner,  
Might have been near Sunnyside  
where Queens Ave. meets Forty-Ninth  
Or was it at Gold and Concord?  
Anyways, I called him John. 
> 
> John Q. Public was on a ho' stroll.  
Saw her waiting beneath a street lamp,  
Called her a dollar-woman  
Took her on a date to the hot pillow joint  
that charged three twenty-five on the hour,  
Mother charged ten  
Her mack man got four. 
> 
> I was what I ate and I ate what I was fed  
And I got by on my momma's bread.

The words clashed with her refined voice. Her poem was met with applause. Louisa told me that her name was Angry or Angry Andy, Andy was for Andrea.  
"She's so awesome," Louisa gushed. "Not afraid to say anything to anyone."   
Angry acknowledge the applause with a wave of her notebook and strode to join a table of three. "I'm a regular here," Louisa said.  
To my surprise, she headed to the microphone. She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her purse and smoothed it out. She cleared her throat and began reading in her best nasal quaver. 

> I wouldn't mind being a Baked Potato,  
If it was for a little while.  
(After all, I'm shaped like one)  
Though it gets gnawed and bitten,  
It gets to be hot and warm,  
And buttered and if'n it don't get butter,  
It gets sour cream  
Bacon bits  
And those teeny green things,   
(Can't get enough of those little green things). 
> 
> I say Baked Potato,  
'Cuz that's what he said to me,  
My damn'd Ex.  
There he was at supper  
Buttering my roll with MY butter  
With MY knife, sitting at MY table, in MY KITCHEN  
And he looks at me and says  
"You're nothing but a baked potato."  
The Nerve!  
And I say back to him:  
"Hun, you're nothing but an oven,  
Squat! Fat! And full of hot gas!" 
> 
> [sotto voce]  
But-  
But I don't mind being a Baked Potato,  
'Cuz it's better than being cold all the time.

She jumped from asylum crazed to pleading without a hitch. Louisa was a performer, and received whistles of appreciation for her performance. She gave a small bow before leaving the microphone. The first two women had spoken of men to other women. The rest of the poems spoke of cooking, a sliver of blue sky out of a factory window, or a song on the radio, slices of any day and everyday.  
I felt comfortable there. In her journal, Dorothy 0 mentioned sneaking off to "slam night" at cafes. She had felt free there. I felt the same way. I felt the urge to read the next time that I came. An android writing poetry? It seems ridiculous, but here I am scribbling into a journal.  
Until next time,  
R. Dorothy Wayneright 

===  
Author's Notes:  
Can't take credit for the opening line of the first poem: www.engrish.com - 30 June 2004.  
For the prostitution slang: http:www.amatory-ink.co.uk/thesaurus/prostitution.htm 


	16. On Her Own 5

Sunday 20 November PY 40 

Dear Diary,  
Friday and Saturday belonged to two different worlds. I spent Friday mucking through stacks of obscure archives and records. All the while, the arithmetic of my expenses buzzed in the back of my mind.

Early Saturday morning, I had coffee with green-faced Louisa. She munched on cookies as I spoke. She asked about my past. She told me about hers. Louisa works as a waitress at a blue-collar diner. Louisa wasn't hired for her looks, so much as her mouth and strong legs. The job involves a lot of standing, and her "yakking" makes the customers feel at home. Or that's what I managed to extract.  
She laid out her rules for working women:  
1) Never date a boss  
2) Never date a co-worker  
3) Never date a customer  
That is why  
4) You have girlfriends that will keep an eye out for you  
,which leads to  
5) Never date a friend's boss.

If I were searching for a role model, I'ld keep looking. Otherwise, Louisa seems harmless enough. At some point, her barrage of mangled words began making sense. After thirty minutes, it sounded perfectly normal. I could automatically conjugate her oi's and d's back to their original sounds.

cauffee - coffee  
oilier - earlier  
Oim - I'm  
de - the  
toid - third

[indecipherable scribble] Norman would probably have an interesting reaction if I picked up her East Side accent.

"Dorothy," Louisa said. "You look like you've got a lot on your mind. Why don't we go shopping tomorrow, it'll take your mind off things. There's always something new on Canal Street."  
Since my concerns were fiscal, I didn't see how more spending could help.  
"I do need new curtains," I replied, confronted with this strange idea.  
"Trust me," she said. "Why don't you get some rest. We'll make a date of it. I'll meet you at nine sharp, in the morning. It's better to get there early. Usually I'ld go earlier to beat the Church crowds, but it can't be helped."

At nine o'clock in the morning, my upstairs neighbor showed up. She wore a bright green dress without the bright green mudpack. I dressed in black. We took a bus to Manhattten.

"It's not about the buying or even the looking," Louisa explained. "It's an excuse for being out and about, minding your business, for just being there. Some people call it taking a walk. I call it shopping, because I've got to call it something. Otherwise I say to myself: 'Louisa, what are you doing out here? Get your ass inside and do something useful.' But when you do call it shopping, your real purpose is being there just to enjoy being there.  
"Of course, if you see something you want to buy, go for it."

It didn't make much sense at the time.

Most of the borough is inside a Dome. Chinatown and other slivered neighborhoods ring the Dome. At one of the Chinatown borders is Canal Street. We arrived a block away and could hear noise the moment that we stepped off of the diesel bus.  
From Roger's mansion, Paradigm massy and forbidding like a labyrinth. At night, the block around my apartment seems tense. By day, Canal Street was a festival. The asphalt was chained off to stop traffic. Shoppers milled around on the street. Tables, luggage on legs, blankets, and booths lined both sidewalks. Over the din, Louisa screeched something about breakfast and towed me onto line for belgian waffles and coffee.  
We ate breakfast at the side of the crowd, near a fire hydrant. I noticed that the people looked past each other. At best, a bump elicited an absentminded mumble. When I ran errands for Norman, I stole glances of people and never experienced that size of a crowd. As the day wore on, I discovered why people looked past each other, there were too many faces and eye, too many people to take in.

By the end of the day, I found a set of dark blue curtains for a reasonable price. I also found a sturdy purse and a medium landscape of the Hudson in winter.

Today is Sunday and reality sets in again. I tried to read, but was distracted. I felt uncertain and bought a newspaper to peruse the want ads. I can't do much about it today, but for better or worse, tomorrow is another day.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	17. Days of Ink

Days of Ink Monday 21 November PY 40 

Dear Diary,   
A series of bombing has rocked Paradigm. The bomber struck at a church. I wondered how Dastun was doing. He was probably in the thick of the mess. There were few details. The byline read Paradigm Press Corp. 

Roger had subscriptions to one daily, three weekly journals, and a two monthlies. The daily publication came from within the Domes, and had a more details that the rag in front of me. He actually skimmed and perused for what fell between the lines, what Paradigm Corp hid. He didn't get everything from Big Ear. While his work ethic was not sterling, Roger was good at hiding the work that he did do. At the beginning of his career, I would imagine that he had to hustle, just like I am doing now. 

There were no calls today. I wouldn't have minded a "hey, toots," from the guys at the Pumber's Union if it meant another job. I looked through the want ads. There was one call for a PI from one Maeve Rocko. It promised exciting work. Rocko was an industrialist. She acquired the seed to her domain through inheritance and marriage. Once her first husband died, she took the reigns and used her business acumen and ruthlessness to build a small empire. If Roger realized that I actually listened to his diatribes, he'd probably pass out. Anyway, Soldano was also an industrialist. His factories and staff produced all types of products, useful and unsavory. One of those factories had created me. Soldano had also produced my big sister. I left a message with her secretary. He told me that he would get back to me later.  
I made some cold calls and left messages with suspicious receptionists. Female and PI seemed immiscible to them.  
I called a printing shop to price up hand bills. The voice at the other end sounded familiar.  
"Estuary Press," the woman said. "Pamplets, handbills, and booklets all printed at a reasonable price and delivered promptly."  
I introduced myself and told her my business. We spoke for a bit. Her name was Andrea; Angry Andy from the underground cafe. When I told her that I was in business for myself, the tone of the conversation changed. It went from polite business to meeting a long lost sister. I found myself putting in an order for a hundred at one and a half cents per sheet. A stapler and staples went for ten dollars. I also agreed to come to next League of Women Entrepeneurs on Thursday  
During the afternoon, I put up my curtains. They needed to be taken in a bit. My windows no longer offended my sensibilities, and the natural lighting had dropped to the impractical level that I became accustomed to in Roger's place. Home, sweet home.  
  
As I finished the little chore, I heard the clangor of shoes on the fire escape again. I opened my window to see if it was another underlinen bandit. The footsteps stopped. Whoever it was began humming. I decided to check it out. 

The fire escape wrapped around the corner of the building to connect with all of the windows around the back. A woman admired the view. Her blue dress flowed in the breeze. She had skin almost as pale as mine and long corn silk hair. She turned around to show an oval face, a sharp nose, and mildly angular eyes. Her eyes were a piercing blue.

"Good evening," she said in a somnabulist's tone. "Care to join me?"  
"Join you for what?" I asked.  
"To enjoy the sky. It's great over here."  
I carefully made my way over to her. I was mindful of the rust trails beneath each riveted support.  
"My name is Carrie, short for Carris, like the seed. You can call me Carrie or Carris."  
"My name is R. Dorothy," I answered. "What are you doing out here?"  
"Normally, I would taking dictation at Truman Reality Limited, a subsidiary at Paradigm. However, my boss is having a torrid affair with a flapper, so I have the day off. It's hush money, but it's not paid, so it doesn't appear on the books. So much goes by the books, but there are so few real books out there. Full of words instead of numbers. Numbers can't move me as much as words can. Do you Remember any good books?"  
"A few," I said. Carris's face perked up.  
"Really? Then would you please join me?" she asked excitedly.  
"Yes, let me close my window, where do you live?"

Carris lived two doors down from Louisa. Her abode was an absolute fire hazard. Every inch of the walls were lined with shelves. Notebooks and scrapbooks were stuffed in every available inch of wall, except for the walls adjacent to the stove. She'd removed those after a fire destroyed her sketches of Staten Island. I declined to join Carris to scout the landfill mining operations, though viewing a geyser of methane fueled flame sounded interesting.  
I told her about "Pygmalion" and "The Great Gatsby". She recorded every detail that I could remember in a composition book.  
"Why do want to know?" I asked.  
"I think that I speak the way that I do from Memory," she answered. "When someone said that, it made sense. When I was a kid, I got teased for it. It became cruel. I don't Remember anything myself, but the past sounds like such a wonderful place."  
We talked for a little while longer. I was tempted to tell her about Dorothy 0's memories. That world was not beautiful. It seemed as ordinary as the smoggy streets of Paradigm. Or maybe it was beautiful, and my elder sister couldn't see it.

R. Dorothy Wayneright   
  
Tuesday 22 November PY 40  
Dear Diary,  
I recieved a phone call back from Mz. Rocko's secretary. He told me that he had to perform some background checks and said that he would call again Wednesday morning. No calls back from anyone else.  
Andrea biked to my apartment with the sheaf of handbills. She wore a blue union worksuit and cap. Her tall mien was the same as I had remembered. When she smiled, she showed off an chipped tooth.  
She had suggested a few ideas to me. Outside the Domes, most young laborers are lettered. They can read and sign their names, and read a menu. The next group could muddle through a daily rag. Then there was the fully literate, which we fell into. I added fully literate to my skills in the advertisement.  
The bills turned out well balanced and designed. I paid her in full. Andrea thanked me and asked if I had met Crazy Carrie.  
"Carris?" I asked.  
"You know her?" Andy asked.  
"Yes."  
She studied me and pronounced. "You ARE her type."  
Interesting.

I took a bus to business districts in Kings and the Bronx to put up my advertisements.   
I returned to find a letter from Norman. 

Dear Dorothy,  
I hope that this letter finds you well. The mansion just has not been the same without you. Please visit sometime.  
Yours very truly,  
Norman

I read the letter three times. I placed it with my box of books for safekeeping.

R. Dorothy Wayneright 


	18. Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel I

Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel I

Wed 23 Nov 40 PY

Dear Diary,

At 8:30 AM, Carris stopped by to give me a small potted spider plant. She quickly looked over my place as if committing it to memory. Carrie hurried to work as abruptly as she had come.

At 10:00 AM, I received a call back from Mz. Rocko's office to see her. I took the bus.

At 10:45 AM, I arrived at her mansion. Her secretary and butler, Yeats, who directed me to her office. Yeats was a plain man in his late twenties. He patted me down for weapons. He apologized for it and did it professionally. I was still offended by his touch.

Chairwoman Rocko sat behind a monument of polished oak. The bureau to end all bureaus was raised on a dais. The visitor's chair was not on the dais. From my side of the desk, the sun glared through the slatted white curtain to shine directly at my eyes. On the manicured lawn, metal sundials and other seemingly innocuous sculptures were positioned to beam the afternoon light into her office.

She was at least six feet tall. Her face was angular, more handsome than pretty. She was scented with a light musk. Her dress suit was austere in color. It was tailored to square her shoulders and show off the spare curves of her body. Her shoe-polish black hair was pulled back into a bun. Black eyes stood out from a flawless fair face. The timbre of her voice matched the command of her posture.

"I have called you here today, because a woman would be more discreet. I offer the rate of one thousand dollars for this job. Not negotiable. Expenses are your own. No advance. I give nothing in advance."

I nodded.

"The job is to investigate the dealings of one of my associates," the Chairwoman of Standard Industries said. She pulled a packet from her desk. "This is information on him. If you accept, please take the envelope. Either way, that will be all."

I took the mustard yellow packet.

I looked through the information and took notes. Mr. Paul Jennings was a well kept man. The black and white photograph captured a bored blond in his mid twenties. His features were sculpted by an artist, though his expression marred his face. He did not live at the mansion, but was kept in a ritzy penthouse suite at the top of the Wellington Hotel in one of the better parts of Queens. The dossier listed his stipend and his expenses. He paid by cheque at a different restaurant each day of the month. He played the horses at Monmouth six days of the week.

My job was to make a report on his habits and any suspicious activity.

I returned home to get my camera and a few tools, which all fit into my rivet reinforced purse. I memorized the information. I changed into less conspicusous clothes.

It is 3:00 PM, and I am situated at a cafe across the street and sip coffee that I cannot taste. My target should make his evening move soon.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

=====

A/N: I am going on sabbatical. Typing has become too painful for me to ignore. I will return once I deal with this. It will take at least several months. Thanks for reading. Mea culpa.


	19. Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel II

Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel II

Thursday 1 December 40 PY

Dear Diary,

I trailed Jennings for almost a week. I thought that seeing one man surreptitiously pick his nose was quite enough for me. This time it was the main gist of my job. The process was easier than I had anticipated. The biggest challenge was convincing the cabbie that I really was serious about "follow that taxi". Jenningss seemed oblivious to being trailed.

After a simple dinner, he always picked a copy of the Sun, went to the track, and placed two bets. The first bet boxed the horses with the worst odds in a $2 exacta. The next bet boxed the best two odds. If there was a scratch, reclaimed his wager. He kept to himself.

To keep my cover, I put a dollar on the favorite to show. Louisa taught me more than I ever wanted to know about handicapping and her second boyfriend and this one time at Coney Island, etcetera. My horse didn't come in once.

Jennings always went to the same teller, even if the line was longer. The teller was a chain smoking Caucasian woman into her fifties . She always wore a solid colored dress that hung limply from her thin body. The woman only smiled at Jennings.

On the fourth day, I noticed that Jennings wasn't holding his paper after leaving the line. The following day, I queued behind him. He left the paper at the counter, which the teller slipped under the counter as I put a dollar on Lone Filly.

I stayed for the other races to keep an eye on the teller. During the second to last race, a stallion named Goldbug snapped its leg coming around the final bend. Two men draped a blanket over his head and shot him with a shotgun.

The teller left soon afterward and headed toward the employees' exit. I sprinted out of the main entrance to a nearby building. She clutched a canvas backpack masquerading as a purse. From the track, I sprinted from alley to alley to keep out of her sight until she entered the El station. I bought a newspaper to hide behind and sat in the same rail car. The teller spent the time knitting a blue scarf.

The passengers thinned as the rail approached the Central Dome. We were the last two passengers. I expected her to get off before Rockefeller Terminal, which was a gate to the Central Dome. I did not have a dome pass. The teller did not get off and calmly clicked away with her needles. The navy blue suit and hat of the El conductor bobbed closer in the adjacent car.

I checked my purse. After the day's wagers, I was left with ten greenbacks and loose change. The rest was in extra-Dome currency or script.

The El conductors only took Paradigm dollars. There were forty odd script in my wallet were not enough to persuade the conductor. Even if I got out at the stop, the Terminal was technically inside of the dome and the script was still worthless.

The Paradigm public transit system guarded by the Military Police. I counted six different brown jackets circulating through the cars. Force was not an option. Last week, a pair of extra-Dome illegals tried to sneak into the Dome by hanging onto the underbelly of the train cars. One fell off. The other was shot by an MP sniper. Evasion was equally unwise.

Moments later, the large MP conductor loomed over me.

"Good evening" I said.  
"Pass please," he rumbled.  
"One moment," I redoubled my scrambling to buy time.

The man with the low sloping brow put his massive and hairy hand on my shoulder. A clear voice spoke from behind him.

"Please excuse my niece, she forgot that I was holding the pass."

The conductor took a look at her golden certificate for a moment and grunted. The chain smoking teller slipped the certificated into her purse before settling next to me. Her name was Tiffany. Fanny to her friends, she asked me to call her Fanny.

Her hand continued their knitting. Every five clicks, she pulled the rolled tobacco from her lips and tapped the ashed onto the ground. The train docked briefly at the tower of the Rockefeller building. Evening darkened into night. The reflected windows of the El receded into the Dome glass toward the inky sky. Above, the street lamp snapped on one by one as the office buildings lit up, illuminating a bent city in the sky.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" Fanny asked. "Everything looks beautiful when you're in love."  
"Excuse me?" I turned my head mechanically. She continued talking without missing a beat.  
"Well, it's obvious, a woman doesn't go to race track alone and then leave after one bet."  
"You're wrong, but thank you."  
"You're welcome," she responded. "But I speak from experience and feel that I am right. I was in love once, and I can see it in you. It's not always a bolt out of the blue, but if it's really out of the blue, it'll change your course all the same. You're young and proud, the same as I was. I'll introduce you to Paul, he's my niece's fiance. You'll see, it'll all work out."

She fell silent as the EL descended toward street level. We exited onto a platform at East 49th. Paul Jennings waited for us with a crooked grin on his face. His held his coat under his arm. He said hello to Aunt Fanny. He said hello to his shadow, that would have been me. I had fallen in with strange people.

More later,

R. Dorothy Wayneright

P.S. I spoke with Carris after this incident. The mistake with the ticket was easier to make than one would think. Transit prices are deceptive; a ticket priced to go to Rockefeller Terminal is good for any destination inside the Central Dome, but without a pass I could not get into the Dome. That means that outsiders pay for the extra miles that the Dome dwellers travel inside the dome.

Paradigm has numerous subsidiaries outside of the Domes and the salarymen need to commute safely, hence the El. Among the extra-Dome residents, young women ride the rail the most. Most work the night shift and are willing to pay the El prices for the safety. This accounts for the canned movie plot of a weary woman meeting a handsome and clean cut Paradigm man on the El. It's Louisa's fault that I know this. Another group of rail riders are composed of another breed of young woman who do business with lonely male commuters.

At the time, I glanced at Fanny's ticket and bought the same.

Up until this point, I had not thought of movement as a privilege.

P.P.S. Another cultural note, Paradigm issued dollars (AKA greenbacks) are the standard currency and that was what Roger exclusively spent. Outside of his darkened demesne, I found out that local banks, credit unions, and other extra-Dome organizations printed their own notes of credit and promissory notes with varying degrees of stability and success. These lesser currencies are called script. Flashing a fistful of greenbacks is a way to attract several varieties of attention.


	20. Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel III

Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel III

Friday 2 December 40 PY

Dear Diary,

Jennings warmly invited me to follow him. My cover was blown, but I refused to quit my case. I followed, though I was still suspicious.

His step had an exaggerated bounce for the first few blocks, but each step slowed. He leaned forward as if fighting against the wind. The mocking smile on his face slipped into a flat and tight lipped grimace. Aunt Fannie looped her arm through mine. She tried to make some small talk, but fell silent.

About ten minutes later, we reached at a brick department store. A liveried doorman was ready to lock the store. The doorman tipped his hat to Jennings and let him in. Jennings hastily thanked him before rushing in, ignoring the shouts from several saleswomen. I excused myself from Fannie to pursue. He rushed up eight flights of stairs to the top of the building. He was oblivious to my following. He stumbled through the doors of the top floor. A single light remained lit behind a glass wall.

Jennings tapped at the clear door filled with relief. A pretty brunette gave him a severe look as she unlocked the door. We walked into a clouded greenhouse. There dozens of types of flowers and houseplants; it was an upscale shop. Jennings turned on his 150 watt smile, which deflected woman's glare to me.

"I'm sorry, but we're closed,"the woman said with exasperation. She carried her shoes in a bag and wore grungy sneakers.

"It's okay, she's with me," Jennings said. "A dozen, no, two dozen roses."

"At this time of night?" she asked even as she headed to a display case. "You're going to owe me. A dinner, at least."

"I'll pay you back, this is the last time that I'm going bother you. I really mean the last."

"I see," the woman said somberly. All traces of her anger faded. "I wish that you had told me earlier."

"Thank you for everything."

She stripped two dozen red and yellow roses in record time. She gnawed her lower lip. I felt like a voyeur as she handed him the radiant bouquet. He wildly overpaid with a pair of C-notes. The woman did not glance at the money as Jennings tipped his hat and left. She leaned against the front counter, clicking her scarlet fingernails against the glass. She paid no attention as I left.

I made a mental note of the brunette, but she was not Jennings's main accomplice.

The store was completely dark when we descended. Fannie was still waiting in the lobby. Jennings tipped the doorman generously and exchanged a few bright words. All that brightness dimmed as we exited. Jennings and Fannie turned up their collars against the cold, and Jennings awkwardly tried to shield his over-sized bouquet against the wind.

Our destination was the twenty-story tall Central Dome General Hospital. The tower was visible from a distance. A concrete nautiloid of a parking garage curled against the hospital. Jennings conferred with a male orderly at the front desk who said that Doctor Silbane was waiting for him. Jennings and Fanny used the elevator. I waited for the elevator to start moving before I sprinted up the stairs. At each floor, I beat the elevator and waited for it to rise a quarter of the way up before taking off again. It was the best that I could do to ensure that they did not stop the elevator and ditch me. I met them as they exited the elevator.

Dr. Silbane had a cramped office on the fifth floor. He was a large, bearded man who wore wire-frame spectacles. He looked grave, and asked Jennings if he were sure. Jennings confirmed that he was sure. Silbane led us down to the oncology ward. A nurse let us pass without comment.

One room looked like another. Dr. Silbane stopped at a door that read R. Rorschach. A body lay motionless in the middle of a vast white bed. Body was a generous term, there were skin and bones and little wasted flesh left. I could not tell her gender until I saw that her chart. An IV drip hung beside her head, and an EKG beeped placidly beside the bed. Other machines worked away, sustaining her life.

Silbane stood aside. Jennings gave her a shy smile that seemed foreign to his face. He unwrapped the shroud of tissue from the flowers and displayed the bouquet. He spoke to her in a low voice with the pygmy smile fixed in place. For the first time since I began my observation, I felt wrong.

Fanny's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes were wet. She stumbled away from the room. I let her lean against me. We waited in the hallway beneath a flickering light. Long minutes later, the EKG began to shrilly whine and then went silent. Aunt Fanny wiped her moist eyes with her hand. I gave her my handkerchief.

"Was she your niece?" I asked. Fanny nodded. "I'm sorry," I said. I awkwardly patted the woman on the shoulder. Though it seemed empty, it seemed to help slightly. But I'm not sure who it helped.

Silbane appeared at the door to tell us that Jennings wanted to see us. Fanny stumbled blindly into the room. She knelt by the bedside and began to alternate between praying and crying. I gave her some space. Jennings stared blankly out the window. I joined him instead. He unexpectedly pulled an envelope from his pocket.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A signed confession and apology to Mz. Rocko," he said.

I opened it and scanned it. He was telling the truth. A business card fell out. As I bent to pick it up, I heard a loud shatter. Shining shrapnel showered over my head and shoulders as a chill wind rushed into the room. I looked up to see Jennings put his other fist through the remnants of the pane. His entire face had gone taut. In the pale light, it looked more like plastic than skin. He began to claw at his face with his fingers as if he wanted to tear it away. His bloodied hands seized a jagged shard from the windowsill. I arrested his wrist and hauled him away from the broken glass.

I was the only one coherent enough to explain that Mr. Jennings had snapped after euthanatizing his fiancée. The burly orderlies let us go after Silbane intervened. Jennings was probably a well paying customer.

I found us a pair of rooms for the night at a nearby motel. Neither Fanny nor Jennings were in any shape to go anywhere. I also felt weighed down, though it was only second-hand grief.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	21. Fact Checking

Fact Checking

Monday 5 December 40 PY

Dear Diary,

Mr. Jennings picked up the hotel tab. I opened the door to my room as he left. I wanted to get the full story, but stayed silent when he turned to wave goodbye. He'd aged twenty years in a single night. Shortly afterward, I walked Fanny to the station. She leaned heavily on my arm. I also refrained from asking her any questions.

I spent the weekend organizing my documentation and outlining my report. I tried to make sense of it, but Jennings's confession made the case feel surreal. Why would he allow me to tail? And why turn himself in?

I needed to know more.

On Sunday, I hit the pavement again. There were gaps, and my job was to find them. He had disappeared and his trail had grown cold. He had been affable to acquaintances, but kept no friends. I endured a fifteen minute lecture from the flower lady about snooping, but she gave me nothing. By Sunday night, I decided to stop skirting my most reliable source.

I returned to the track on Monday afternoon. Fanny worked in a daze. She looked around often, probably for Mr. Jennings, but he never showed. Her face lit up when she saw me. I offered to take her to a coffee shop after work. She readily accepted. Once there, Fanny apologized frequently for keeping me. The small woman chain smoked and patted my arm, assuring me that Mr. Jennings would get over her niece Renee Rorschach. Perhaps she mistook me for an admirer of Mr. Jennings. Perhaps the only reason she needed was talking itself.

Fanny raised Renee R., who was her big brother's only child. Fanny had worked in a shirt factory at the time. She was a bright student who passed an entrance exam into secondary school. She excelled and was offered a contract from Brightmore Power & Electric to study engineering at the City College. After graduating, RR went on to work in a research lab for Brightmoore. Fanny showed me a picture. RR stood proudly cloaked in a black robe and capped by a mortarboard; she was plain and tall made radiant by an open smile. The story was common enough that I had heard it before, but infrequent enough to be noted. I could not tell if the graduate was the same as the wasted woman in the hospital.

RR fell ill a few years later, Jennings appeared like a knight errant to help the stricken family. Fanny teared up when she spoke of her niece's illness. I gathered that Jennings and RR met as children. They had lived at the same boarding house where the sweatshop workers lived. When it became late, I walked Fanny to the station again.

I wondered more than once if the whole mess was an elaborate ruse, but the grief and tears seemed real. I had a feeling that this was just beginning.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Tuesday 6 December 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Early Tuesday morning, I called Central General posing as an insurance agent. They confirm that RR had suffered from protracted leukemia and that Jennings had paid the bills. Brightmoore Labs (a subsidiary of Brightmoore P&E) had been bought out by Paradigm Grid, which refused to speak with me. A visit to City College library confirmed her attendance and her subsequent employment with Brightmoore.

I located the Fanny's old neighborhood from the yearbook and Fanny's descriptions. The block sat at the base of the Central Dome. A drainage canal separated the dome from the tenements. On rainy days, acres of run-off collected into culvert and turned it into a rushing river. From the housing, I could see the massive concrete plinth supporting one of the steel ribs. I experienced a moment of vertigo before my eyes adjusted to the vast sweep of the dome curving into the sky.

The narrow shirt factory was grungy and gloomy as expected. Hundreds of sewing machines whirred away at full tilt. Even from across the street, I could hear the racket of pret-a-porter being steamed pressed and readied for Dome department stores.

The workers' tenement across the street from the factory was abandoned. The front double doors were boarded shut and matted with old fliers. RR had promised to lift them from this ramshackle building, and it had collapsed a short six weeks after they escaped. The Dome drainage system had been expanded, leading to excavation from the adjacent lot. The earth removal placed the building at the face of a precipice. The contractor claimed to have reinforced the slope, but the sheer downcut collapsed after a hard rain. Nearly half of the dorm slipped into the rushing canal. Twenty residents, including nine children, had been swept away that night. None were found alive. Fortunately, most of the inhabitants had fled the deafening construction. I tried to imagine the past inhabitants, but only saw the gouged out windows staring back at me. I left to head to the factory.

As I turned, I saw that a gaunt man had been waiting for me at the foot of the dorm stairs. He was past middle age and held with a small grocery bag in his arm. He wore a shabby suit and held a hook cane, which he pointed at the cloud cluttered sky. It would raining soon, he warned. He asked why I was interested in the old dorms. I introduced myself as an acquaintance of Fanny's and Mr. Jennings.

The man introduced himself as Father Kavanagh. Most of his congregation came from the shirt factory. He talked to me as if we were old friends and invited me to his church office. Kavanagh had performed the ceremony for RR. As for Mr. Jennings, the Father had seen him once about two years ago.

Paul Jennings was the clown whether in school or in church. The boy had been bright, but unfocused. He dropped out of school halfway through secondary school and then made his way as a day laborer. Young Paul always had a crush on Renee. She had stood up for him when the other school children picked on him for looking different.

"Different?" I asked. "Some would call him quite handsome."

"Yes, search and you will find beauty in all of His children," Father Kavanagh answered. He seemed pleased with my answer.

I was confused by statement. I asked for him if he had a picture. He found a photo amoung his shelves. As I studied the black and white photo, the priest busied himself making coffee. The congregation crowded in church lawn. Kavanagh pointed out a frail boy sitting at the front of the group. His bowl-shaped haircut obscured his eyes. I focused on him with my built-in magnification. His head was misshapen, as if it had been dented by a sledgehammer. His upper lip was split into a definite harelip.

"About the time you last saw Paul," I asked Kavanagh.

He asked me to bear with him as he told the story. The events hadn't made sense to him at the time, but they had stuck because that meeting had been so strange. One night in late November, Jennings burst into his office. Not only had Kavanagh not seen Jennings for years, the younger man kept his face hidden under a yarn hat and scarf and wouldn't remove them. Kavanagh did not recognize him until he identified himself.

"Father, if someone were dying, would you make a bargain with the devil to save that person?" Jennings blurted out. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Kavanagh taken aback by the suddenness of the question. He decided to play along. "If I knew it were the devil, no, because his nature is to do evil. No good could come from it. Why, has someone offered you such a bargain?"

Jennings laid a card on the priest's desk, it had a pair of theatrical masks embossed on the front. There were no words, only the false faces. Jennings explained that Renee had fallen ill and her husband had skipped when she had taken a turn for the worse. He was the only one who could help, if he accepted the bargain. The catch was that the devil would collect when Jennings "had no need of it any longer". The term "it" was left vague.

Paul did not explain exact nature the bargain, but Kavanagh had seen the duo masks before on graffiti. It was the symbol of a local boogieman Dr. Faces. Mothers scared their little children into behaving by mentioning his name. Kavanagh was incredulous, but someone dangerous could have adopted the symbol and name. He tried other lines of inquiry, but could not get more details from Paul. The more he tried to calm Jennings down, the more agitated the younger man grew.

The Father had a suspicion. The urban legends usually talked about Dr. Faces stealing faces. When he reached to pull away the scarf, Jennings violently drew away.

Jennings desperately restated his question. "If it were someone you loved, would you make the bargain?"

Flustered, the priest answered honestly. "If it is His will to recall a loved one to His side, I would not side with the Devil to thwart it."

"Then this, too, must be His will," Jennings answered before running from the room.

I told the priest that I had heard of Dr. Faces before, but had nothing to add. I asked to see the church's records and confirmed that Fanny, RR, and Jennings had lived at the dorm. I thanked him and left.

I stopped by the empty dormitory again. The front double doors were plastered with the rain-blurred handbills. I could barely discern the now familiar symbol. On impulse, I tore away the matted mess. A spray painted black and white pair of masks were revealed, weeping and heckling. A staring eye reigned over the false faces.

Curiouser and curiouser.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Morning Wednesday 7 December 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

While I was at church, the devil demanded his due. The neighborhood blotter on page 8 of the Sun read "Mr. Paul Jennings, aged 27 years, leapt from a thirty-story office building in broad daylight." He had left a suicide note.

He was from outside the Domes; for the MP, it was an open and shut case. For me, the case must go on.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	22. Business Relations

Chapter 22. Business Relations

Early Morning - Saturday 10 December 40 PY

Dear Diary,

I turned out Louisa last night after an hour of chatter. She rambled about some man that she had met in the neighborhood.

The first draft of the report was finished near midnight. I stuck strictly to the original instructions, which were to report on Jennings's whereabouts and activities. The mystery of Jennings's altered appearance remained unsolved. While cosmetic surgery available in the Domes, the best surgeon would telltale signs and could not effect such a drastic change.

It is likely that my current case relates to Roger's last case as an MP. More on this later, but I must finish the write-up, which is due Monday morning.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Monday 12 December 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

Early this morning, I submitted myself to a pat-down search by Rocko's fastidious assistant. He admitted me into Rocko's office after determining that I was not armed to assassinate our mutual employer. Her office had been transformed into a gallery of glass and ivory, though my retina-burning view of the sun had been carefully preserved. Rocko was dressed in a custom-tailored suit of pinstripes on vanilla wool.

I waited before her elevated desk as she paged through the fifty page report. Rocko laid it aside a few minutes later. She loaded and lit a cigarette holder at a leisurely pace and then sucked in a lungful of smoke through the black, thin tube.

"Is there anything that you wish to add to your report, Mz. Wayneright?" she asked.

"Was there any topic that required clarification?" I responded.

Rocko studied me through narrowed eyes. "We agreed that you would observe Mr. Jennings and report anything out of the ordinary. During your investigations, did you observe any discrepancies worth noting?"

"I believe that the scope investigation was conducted in a thorough matter," I answered.

"Are you certain? Further investigation could be well compensated. Think carefully."

"Yes, I am certain," I answered.

"My evaluation of your work is that it is sentimental tripe," Rocko announced in a staccato. The woman rose to her substantial height. "You attempted to analyze Mr. Jennings's motivations and concluded that he was motivated by loyalty and unrequited affection. Loyalty is a strange word considering that he breached his agreement with me while doing so.

"He was 'loyal' to a woman who chose another man, who left her when for better turned for worse. Blindness is more like it," Rocko concluded as she picked up my report again. In a single motion, she snapped up her stainless steel lighter and ignited my report. She dropped the flaming remains into an empty wastepaper basket.

"I believe that this concludes our business dealings. My assistant has rest of the your payment ready. I confess that I am deeply disappointed in you. Good-bye, Mz. Wayneright."

Rocko revealed her intent during our brief meeting. I suspect that I was not the only investigator on the case. I did not mention the photograph of the young Jennings, but she spoke as if she expected something out of the ordinary. If this were a case of a jealous lover, the case would be closed.

A Memory would best explain the change in Jennings's appearance. It would also explain the amount for the fee. If Rocko managed to tap this Memory, she could name her price to Paradigm's rich and famous. However, Memories seldom awake peacefully as the Archetype in the underground and the Sea Titan demonstrated.

In the forty years following the Amnesia, Paradigm Corp and a few foolhardy operators have scoured the city for Memories. The readily available artifacts have been harvested. The remaining knowledge is deeply buried, guarded, or both.

A knock on my window interrupted my entry. Carris stood at my window. Evening had inked the afternoon as I wrote. I let in the doll-like woman from the fire escape. She was coat-less and her azure dress left her pale skin covered in goose flesh. She had been enjoying the winter wind. Carris had become alarmingly thin during the two weeks since I had seen her.

I put on a kettle of water for tea. Unfortunately, there was nothing else in my cupboards.

"You're sweet, but tea is fine," she replied to my apology. "How was your day?"

I outlined Rocko's reaction to my report. The details of the case remained confidential.

"Maeve Rocko. My employer calls her the Rolling Pin," Carris said. Her face took on a dreamy expression as she recalled the information. "She's rumored to use spies, intimidation, and even murder to gain leverage. It's probably for the best that you no longer work for her.

"I'm forgetting something."

Carris suddenly rose and left through the window without closing it. When I moved to follow, she met me at the opening, sealing my lips with her index finger. Without a word, she clanged to the end of the fire escape and backs.

"Come with me," she said in a subdued tone.

Carris reentered, shutting the window after her. She headed out of my apartment for the stairs, went up a level, and headed down the hall. Two doors away from the end of the darkened corridor, she flattened herself against a wall and slipped the rest of the way to the cracked window. Carris pointed upward and to her left. Though it seemed wholly unnecessary, I emulated her movements. Two men stood on a nearby rooftop

One was a Caucasian of average height and stocky build with peppered hair. His collar was turned up. The other man towered to nearly seven feet. His face was muffled in a scarf and hat.

"I saw them earlier today," Carris said.

No one had trailed me on the train, but Rocko knew where I lived.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Tuesday 13 December 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

I left my apartment at mid-morning to run errands. I resolved to act disinterested in Jennings's case for several days. A bright glint flashed at the edge of my vision several times. I did not turn around. It could have been a pair of binoculars, but I did not want to reveal that I was privy to their surveillance.

Carris wanted to talk to me about something last night, but refrained. I will talk with her tonight.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


	23. Countervailing

Wednesday 14 December 40 PY

Dear Diary,

It may be a sign of desperation, but I took Louisa's advice to pack a compact mirror in my purse. She used her mirror to catch one customer checking her out, and he became her ex from three ex'es ago. On second thought, I would probably be better off not listening to her.

I stepped out to draw out my potential stalkers. My route traced though the marketplace and then several busy streets. I didn't use the mirror, but I did stop by a greasy spoon diner and improvised with a buffed knife. I found him over my left shoulder, waiting across the intersection.

It was the same man on the rooftop. He did not make a special effort to hide his presence. The man stood in the cold for a half an hour before entering the pub at the corner. His massive partner never showed. I left with the lunch crowd and walked on the inside of the street, shielded from the pub by a large group of boilermen.

I am positive that I am being watched.

Something came up the night before and Carris had to step out, so I am going to meet her tonight. I warned her about my stalkers, and she laughed them off. "Under no circumstances will a friend of mine buckle to such crude intimidation. Coming? Are you my friend or no?" she said airily.

First Beck tried to use me to hurt Roger, and now I am putting the neighborhood at risk. This problem seems to follow me. In the end, I decided to see what Carris has picked up from her latest foray around Paradigm.

R. Dorothy Wayneright

* * *

Thursday 15 December 40 PY 

Dear Diary,

My shadows did not follow me today. I am writing from a bus headed to middle Manhattan. I can handle my problems without Roger Smith's help, but the purpose for my trip directly involves Roger.

Late last night, Carris showed me a radio communicator that she had scavenged from somewhere. It was a utilitarian box with a microphone. The set could only pick up one frequency, which broadcasted a shrill refrain. Music sheets cluttered her desk. She transcribed the broadcast into notes, translated the notes in letters or number, which became letters, and then tried to unscramble the resulting mess. None of her attempts made any sense.

Carris led me to her chair and placed the headphones over my ears. I could understand the message clearly. The voice of the Archetype had been full of arrogance and overwhelming, while the Sea Titan sounded like a victim of Parkinson's disease. The voice over the radio grated out a single name over and over: "Roger. Roger Smith."

The tarped-over tower has come into view. This will be my first visit back to Roger's place.

R. Dorothy Wayneright


End file.
